


Blind With Casualties

by thememoriesfire



Series: Eyes Closed to Fingers Crossed [6]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-23
Updated: 2011-05-09
Packaged: 2017-10-18 13:23:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 46,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/189310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thememoriesfire/pseuds/thememoriesfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing about New York is what she is expecting it to be.  (It's only a bad thing thirty percent of the time.)  [Part 6 of "Eyes Closed to Fingers Crossed", Santana's perspective with a substantial amount of Rachel and Quinn.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to B for general encouragement. I legitimately did about 3 minutes of research into any of the places mentioned in this story, so if you live in New York or go to Barnard or NYU, this will probably drive you crazy. I would say I'm sorry, but ... it's fanfiction and they have to live somewhere, so New Yorkers, you are taking one for the team.

1.

So.

…

No, really. That’s about all she has. New York is overwhelming, and not that she’d admit it out loud or anything, but if it wasn’t for Rachel she’d have tethered herself to the apartment by now, moving only in a two block radius to get some fucking groceries.

They have three weeks before orientation starts, and in half that time, Rachel has somehow managed to conquer the city. Some part of Santana bitterly thinks that this is just par for the course, because Rachel’s used to being a total nobody and obviously can adjust to being a total nobody in New York. The reality of it is, though, that Rachel doesn’t need a second, and Santana is quickly realizing that she’s not much of anything without one.

Quinn’s solid, as always, but fucking hell, Columbus is far away, and besides--she’s not going to lie around on her bed (surrounded by paint fumes) and whine to her best friend that that dream life they’ve envisioned for themselves is actually turning out to be a big pile of suck because she’s effing lonely. Quinn would probably come over just to smack her in the face before leaving again, and anyway, it is _pathetic_.

“C’mon,” Rachel says, appearing in the doorway. “We should go explore; it’s lovely out, and I want to time the _actual_ amount of time I’m going to spend on the subway to get to my singing lessons.”

Santana grudgingly gets out of bed and then says, “Can I keep my sweatpants on?”

Rachel blinks, twice, and then says, “It’s New York. Nobody will care.”

That’s probably the first positive thing she’s ever thought about the city; leaving the house in sweatpants for non-Cheerios related reasons would’ve been social suicide in Lima.

*

Somehow, Rachel’s singing lessons take them by Amsterdam Avenue.

Santana’s still getting used to the subway, but she’s not stupid.

“I thought your singing lady lives on the Upper East Side,” she says. She’s pretty sure of it, too, because before even moving to New York they’d had a pretty detailed discussion about their finances and apparently Black and White Berry had this college fund all set up for Rachel, but she’s just tapping into it for living expenses now. Shit was like 60,000 dollars, which is an insane amount of money for a teacher and a civil rights lawyer to pull together, but shit also justifies singing lessons on the Upper East Side as opposed to in some basement in Harlem.

“This _is_ the Upper East Side,” Rachel says, before grabbing her hand--what?--and pulling her closer to the gated entrance and then into a courtyard.

They stand there stupidly for a little while, probably looking like seriously lost tourists, but either way, Santana watches the people coming in and out of the building--postgraduate students? Summer classes?--and Rachel says, “Quite a switch from Lima, isn’t it.”

“What, New York?”

“I meant what passes for fashionable here,” Rachel says, calmly, and Santana buys a clue-by-four.

“Yeah,” Santana says, after a second, because everyone’s just wearing jeans and t-shirts and seriously, half the shit she _owns_ would look out of place here.

“I was wondering if you could maybe... help me find some new outfits, before your classes start,” Rachel says, hesitantly.

Santana suppresses a smile, but badly. “Maybe, if you can fucking stop calling them outfits.”

“I just--want to fit in. For a change,” Rachel says. “Though with what, I’m not really sure.”

“Whatever. We should just try to make you look less vertically or otherwise challenged and find some way to make those legs pop without embracing all the fucking Lolita complexes in the world,” Santana says, mildly.

Rachel rolls her eyes, but like, whatever. This is sort of how it’s been the past week, with them sniping at each other without any hard feelings and plenty of time spent apart, even in their little apartment. Rachel probably has a ten point plan to keeping the peace, but so far, she’s not been lectured on picking up towels or doing dishes or anything, and it’s been pretty good.

“Seriously, though-- _is_ this the Upper East Side?” she finally asks, when they’re starting to look almost conspicuous just hovering in front of the building.

Rachel grins, “Not quite, no.”

“I’m going to upgrade my plan to include GPS,” Santana mumbles, because honestly, they could be in fucking Yonkers right now and they wouldn’t know any better.

“You’ll be fine,” Rachel says, taking a step back. “Come on, I thought we’d walk down and cut through Central Park. Maybe have lunch there, or something.”

Santana’s heard worse ideas. (Many, actually.)

*

Quinn finally braves the subject later that night.

“So--really. How is it, living with her?”

OSU orientation has already started and she’s picked a place to pledge with that Santana already can’t remember (they all sound the same) but she sounds slightly intoxicated and very much exhausted, so it probably comes out on accident.

“It’s been good,” Santana says, honestly. “I mean, it’s only been like a week, but--”

“Yeah, give her time,” Quinn agrees.

“No, I mean--”

She gets stuck on trying to explain that this like a different universe--one where Rachel belongs, almost automatically (she gets flirted with like crazy whenever they head out to a deli or a coffee place and places an almost robotically perfected order with a smile), and Santana’s the one struggling for an identity that isn’t just small town girl with a big credit card, because fuck if she’s actually going to live like that.

“She like, dragged me over to Barnard today to fashion spot check,” she finally says.

“Oh, that’s rich. The Argyle Experience trying to educate someone else--”

“No, seriously, though. She fucking saved me from.. like, pulling a _Legally Blonde_ or whatever. I would’ve been all Elle Woods up in that shit in any of my normal out-of-the-house clothes. You know, shit like my red dress?”

“I love that dress,” Quinn says, meaning she’s actually drunk, and not just tipsy.

“I know, baby, but pay attention,” Santana says. “I would’ve looked like Julia Roberts in _Pretty Woman_ wearing that shit, and like, not in the nice way at the end where she like, sorts her shit out and marries the billionaire or whatever.”

“You sound panicky.”

It’s not an accusation, it’s sort of a statement of fact. “I need to buy like, so many more pairs of jeans. Maybe some simple skirts or something. And sweaters. Everyone wears fucking sweaters here.”

“Maybe you can borrow some from Rachel,” Quinn says, with a half-hearted snicker.

“No, this is the kicker, though. She also asked me to take _her_ shopping.”

That actually shuts Quinn up for a moment. “Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“And she _trusts_ you to dress her?”

“Hey, my taste may not be New York nerd appropriate but I’ve fucking redefined class in that shithole we call home,” Santana complains.

“No, I mean, more like--why would she listen to anyone who’s spent so much time making fun of her?”

Quinn’s question ends in a hiccup, and when Santana’s silent for a few minutes, she just starts talking about the stupid things they have to do to pledge and how she’s _totally_ not streaking anywhere, but Santana’s just sort of dumbly looking at the wall that separates her from Rachel and thinking, _I’m an asshole_.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go,” she says, finally, when Quinn’s started waxing poetic about Puck’s arms, because, really, throwing up without alcoholic excuses is just sad.

*

Rachel’s list of demands for things to wear is pretty fucking simple, even if it does come with way too many caveats: but basically, she prefers skirts over jeans (no really!) and needs things that are audition appropriate as well as fine to wear on a day to day basis.

“Okay, well, I don’t know what the hell people wear to auditions,” Santana says, slowly, rifling through Rachel’s closet, “but it ain’t argyle, sweetheart, so a lot of this is going to get set on fire. Don’t worry, I’ll do the honors. Gladly.”

Rachel’s cross-legged on her own bed, sort of tolerating this invasion of her space, but very uncomfortably--in fact, she’s sitting there like any moment now Santana is going to rail on her all 9th grade style and call her an ugly fucking gnome again.

There is no way to apologize for that shit, not really, so she just straightens her shoulders and continues selecting things that _work_ and things that don’t.

Half an hour later, Rachel retains three button-up shirts, seventeen skirts, two pairs of jeans, and some shoes.

“I can’t afford to replace all of this,” Rachel mumbles, looking at the pile of sweaters-and-ew on the floor.

“Sure you can,” Santana says, closing the closet and leaning back against the door.

“I really _can’t_ , Santana. God knows how long it’s going to take for me to find a job and I need that fund to last me for however long it’ll take me to make it.”

“I thought that was like, five minutes,” Santana says, jokingly.

Rachel is not amused. “I didn’t think that I’d ever be telling _you_ that you need a reality check, but apparently, that’s not the only thing I’ve been wrong about.”

“Hey,” Santana protests, before glancing over to some clothes that she will actually light the fuck on fire, because donating them would just be cruel. “Don’t be a bitch. All I meant is, you have the money, but whatever, my parents will field this trip.”

“I’m not letting your parents pay for my new clothing.”

“Oh, yes you are,” Santana says, calmly. “Because once classes start, I won’t be seen in public with you unless you wear something other than _that_.”

“Fine,” Rachel says, giving her a very resolute stare that, well, it’s pretty impressive. “Then we won’t be seen together in public. I’m not exactly sure that my best friend, the part-time ho will win me any points with the theater crowds, _either_ , so maybe it will work out for the best.”

“You’re a bitch, do you know that?” Santana says, before ploughing through the clothing she’s separated to discard, and really, fuck Rachel. She can clean up her own shit.

“Learned from the best,” Rachel calls out after her.

They don’t talk for like, half a day, but Rachel whips up dinner like nothing’s happened.

Santana carefully--like she’s going to get snapped at by a rabid dog--takes her plate to the couch, where some documentary or some shit is paused, and then eats silently.

“I don’t do charity,” Rachel says, softly.

“Maybe, my parents just want you to like, fucking thank you for all those times I’ve had dinner at your house and shit,” Santana says, staring intently at her pasta and twirling it around her fork. “That’s not fucking charity, it’s like--doing the right thing.”

Rachel stays silent for the rest of the evening, but then reaches for Santana’s plate to take back to the kitchen and wash and says, “The _right thing_ would be an apology, but if your parents aren’t up for that, I’m putting my foot down and insisting on a hundred dollar limit.”

Santana just glares at her. Fucking uppity little bitch. ( _Clever_ fucking uppity little bitch.)

*

The one thing she hadn’t taken into account in all of this was that shopping with Rachel = seeing a lot of Rachel. Like, a _lot_.

Rachel has this philosophy that anyone working in theater has to get used to random, sudden costume changes and will consequently strip in front of anyone as long as the reasons presented are “appropriate”. (Puck asking was _not_ one of those.)

So, they’re at the GAP, because really, baby steps with this shit, and Rachel pulls her into a dressing room and starts taking off all of her clothes like _without warning_.

Santana’s mouth moves twice to be like, “hey”, but really, this is how she goes shopping with Quinn all the time, even if Quinn is a little less factual about stripping what with that whole born again virgin thing she has going on.

The GAP has pretty spacious dressing rooms, and so she just flattens herself against the wall, and watches Rachel whip in and out of clothing at record speed. She barely has time to mumble ‘yes’ and ‘no’ before something is pulled on and off again, and like, it’s weirdly clinical.

Which brings up another thought. “Hey. You’re fine with this?” she asks, without thinking.

“With what?” Rachel asks, arms halfway in some sleeves, and Santana pulls on the back of the shirt gently, tugging it over her head.

“Like--” She’s not even really sure what she’s getting at: shopping together? Being half naked in front of a certified sex-starved ladybeast?

Rachel shoots her a look in the mirror. “I’m sure you can contain yourself.”

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t stop other people from being assholes about it.” It’s true, too, because at least half the Cheerios started changing in the showers after she came out--as if _any_ of those bitches came close to either Britt or Quinn, who obviously had no qualms. (Or well, not any more than usual.)

“Other people are assholes about a _lot_ of things. I try to mind my own business,” Rachel says, waiting for the ‘yay’ or the ‘nay’. Santana glances and it’s like, who knew Berry had a rack? One worth looking at, anyway?

“Yay,” she says, and the shirt gets added to a small but growing pile of things that will make Rachel look less like a child prostitution victim and more like--

“Thank you for doing this,” Rachel says, when they’re at the counter and this incredibly preppy guy is trying to get all the security tags off her new outfits.

Santana just shrugs. “Whatever. It’s in the public interest, or something.”

Rachel sighs dramatically, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, and says, “One day, you’ll learn the words _you’re welcome_ , and they will revolutionize your social experience. Maybe, if we’re really lucky, you’ll get the matching set in _thank you_ and well, actually, I think I would probably die on the spot.”

Santana grins. “Look at you, getting all sarcastic and shit.”

“You were bound to rub off on me eventually,” Rachel says, with a little half-smile, and after all that near-nudity in the changing room, that is a _lot_ like flirting.

Santana blinks and says, “Um.”

“If a single mention of the word ‘rub’ is enough to freeze your brain like that, I’m going to go out on a limb and suggest that you need a girlfriend,” Rachel tells her, sweetly, before stepping forward and engaging preppy GAP guy into a conversation about what’s on at the Met right now and like, _really_.

Rachel Berry and New York are like the truest romance of all times. Some part of Santana really thinks she’s just getting in the way of something beautiful here.

*

By the time orientation rolls around, she feels decidedly less like she’s going to have a panic attack every time she leaves the building. So that’s something.

She’s decided to dress down to like, something that is still _her_ but also might get her some cred at Barnard, where clearly “slutty” and “hot” are going to win her about as many points as “motivated” and “smart” won Rachel in Lima.

“I’m not going to start attending art house cinema,” she swore to Rachel the night before. “I don’t even care if that will make me some sort of pariah at the bottom of the food chain; have you ever _seen_ a French film? Seriously, fuck that noise forever.”

Rachel just laughed and said, “You’ll be fine. Honestly. You were the queen of Lima. You’ll find another place to rule with an iron fist.”

The thing is, Rachel is probably right; she’s like a goddamned chameleon if she needs to be, and she can rock nerd chic into the next world if she wants to--but honestly?

She’s turning 19 soon, and maybe, she just fucking wants to be _herself_ for a change.

*

She knows she looks a little shell-shocked when she gets back in, carrying bags full of fliers and generally just _exhausted_.

Rachel looks up from a book and says, “Hey, how was it?”

“Um,” Santana says, because that’s about as cogent as it’s going to get out now. She collapses into the chair adjacent to the couch and drops all of her swag before closing her eyes. “Fucking _kill me_. What was I thinking? Why didn’t I just go to UCLA or Arizona State or something?”

Rachel laughs and then valiantly tries to look sympathetic. “That bad?”

“I thought they’d like, _ease us_ into it. Instead, it was all like, we expect serious commitment and you will work until your eyes bleed and blah blah blah,” Santana says, kicking her shoes off and curling up in the chair. “And like, honestly, I know I’m a bitch but some of these chicks I’m going to be in classes with just look like they want to spit on everyone else, you know?”

“You’re going to have to figure out some way to demonstrate that you belong there. They’ll fall in line,” Rachel says.

“And I got like, my course list. I mean, I don’t have to declare a major anytime soon, but like, I know what I want to do. Holy shit. There is like _one_ entry-level class in the entire Women’s Studies department. Everything else is designed for juniors.”

Rachel still looks very amused, but in a kind of distant way. “You’ll be fine.”

“I--” Santana says, and then just shakes her head. “Yeah, whatever. I can _do_ this.”

“You’re hardly going to be the only person who came from a somewhat underachieving nothing of a high school in a small town with bigger ambitions than staying in it,” Rachel says, in what Santana guesses is supposed to be a comforting tone of voice, but it still sounds a little off.

“Are _you_ okay?” she finally asks.

“Yeah. Got a job,” Rachel says, before reaching behind her and showing a little apron that belongs to a bakery like two blocks down. “I knew my highly developed baking skills would come in handy one day,” she adds, with a wry smile.

“Whatever. You’re going to be the lead in some musical by next year and I’ll be sitting there in the audience going, ‘I knew her when she baked’,” Santana says, before reaching half-heartedly for one of the bags. “You know, one of my possible electives is like, Jewish Gay Lady Poetry or some shit like that.”

Rachel finally cracks a real smile. “I’m sure you’d rather die than take it.”

“Fuck you, I’m totally doing it, if only so that I can be a better Jew than you and Puckerman combined,” Santana says, scowling.

“What else?” Rachel says, pulling up her legs and making space.

They spend the rest of the night planning out basically four years of enrolment, and yeah, Rachel is kind of fucking intense and crazy about preparation, but by the time she goes to bed, Santana actually feels like she might _survive_ college.

*

She texts Puck later that night.

_I’m taking a course called Pleasures & Power, which is basically all about how to fuck girls. Jealous?_

He texts back in the middle of the night. _Nah. While you’re off taking a course, I’m going to be nailing your best friend so hard that she’ll find God again_.

She laughs out loud, earning her a funny look from Rachel, but whatever.

 _Good luck with that, Romeo. Better bring a hammer to shatter that chastity belt with_.

*

The semester picks up insanely quickly after that. Even though she’s stuck trying to get through mandatory English and this course called First Year Seminar that basically is just about learning to express yourself comfortably in small group settings--which, really, Barnard should’ve fucking _asked_ her if she had problems ‘expressing herself’--her other two electives are Intro to Women’s Studies and this Statistics for Economics class that she thinks might actually kill her. Seriously, though, there’s a reason why she’s decided on law and not accountancy as the thing for her future, but whatever--she buys this bad-ass Texas Instruments calculator and she figures that if she gets through this, the rest of her Econ minor will be a breeze.

Rachel, meanwhile, is basically never around anymore; on top of the bakery, she’s also found an early-evening job at one of the off-offs, pawning off tickets to tourists and shit, and that’s on top of singing, acting and dancing lessons--the minute her classes pick up, it’s like living with a goddamned ghost, almost.

It’s not that she _misses_ having Rachel around, it’s more that Rachel was the only person she had around to begin with. Not that the Barnard setup isn’t incredibly fucking claustrophobic, and the Women’s Studies department is small as shit. By the end of her first week, she knows pretty much every chick she’s going to take classes with over the next four years by name. Some of them aren’t so bad; there’s this radical feminist queer girl (don’t call her a lesbian, lesson learned the hard way) called Melissa who spends most of her time rolling her eyes at the patriarchy, but has a sense of humor once you get her outside of class.

Somehow, over lunch with a bunch of the other girls, it comes up that she used to be a cheerleader, and she’s never been more grateful to the HRC for saving her ass than in that discussion.

“Seriously?” Kelly Oberst (sophomore, raised by hippies in Oregon, seriously vegan) says, basically laughing at her face.

(In Lima, that shit would’ve earned her a beating the size of Texas, but in _Barnard_ , one resolves one’s conflicts with wit and cleverness.)

“Yeah, it’s the weirdest thing; I can do the splits _and_ count to ten, all at once.”

Mel’s looking at her funnily for a moment and then says, “Wait a minute. You’re _that_ Santana? Wow, you look really different with your hair down like that.”

“What Santana?” Erin McCloskey asks. (Canadian, ends every third sentence with ‘eh’, not a lesbian but somehow likes wearing flannel. Barnard is good about opening up the mind to tolerance, or something.)

Mel grins and says, “Hang on. I think I have her bookmarked.”

“Oh, God, is this--”

Seconds later, the entire table is watching her talk about her fucking feelings on Mel Harmon’s cellphone.

“A veritable celesbian, at our table,” Candice Webb (from New York, from a family of investment bankers, and doing women’s studies to piss off daddy) says, before giving her a small hand.

“I _never_ would’ve guessed,” Erin says, before looking her up and down. “You’re so--”

“Straight-looking?” Santana asks, dryly.

“ _Hot_ ,” Kelly chimes in.

“Oh, thanks, Kelly. That’s not at all essentializing lesbians everywhere,” Mel says, rolling her eyes.

“Seriously though,” Candice says, before stealing a fry off Mel’s plate with a grin. “That’s pretty impressive. I can’t imagine it’s fun being _that_ publicly gay in middle America.”

“Candice, no offense, but you basically just can’t imagine middle America,” Kelly says.

“Well, true, but from what I’ve seen on television, it’s narrow-minded and full of hay. Seriously, full of it.”

Santana laughs and doesn’t bother explaining what Lima is like, because really, _narrow-minded and full of hay_ just about covers that. She texts Quinn exactly that and Quinn replies with, _Columbus = full of hot guys_ , and yeah. She’s making new friends, or whatever, but it’s not the same as being there with Q, who would’ve made fun of her incessantly at lunch about all of her hang-ups about being associated with the HRC.

“Remind me to thank your dad for making me a power-lesbo, or whatever,” she tells Rachel later that night, doing some dishes when Rachel finally staggers into the house.

“Did your new little posh girl clique like it?”

“They’re not all posh, that’s just Candice,” Santana says, with a smile, before giving Rachel a slightly more concerned look. “Shit, are you even going to be able to make it to your bedroom or do you need me to carry you?”

“I’m fine,” Rachel says, but then teeters precariously anyway. “Just--exhausted.”

“You’re doing too much,” Santana points out, before flicking some remaining suds on her hands into the sink and heading over to give Rachel something to lean on.

“I’m doing what everyone else trying to make it in this city is,” Rachel says, but with no real feeling behind it.

“Yeah, well, not everyone in this city has your voice, babe, so maybe you can--you know, tone it down a little,” Santana says, gently. They shuffle over to Rachel’s room and she doesn’t let go until Rachel’s safely deposited on her bed. “I’m going to make you a Pop-tart and you’re going to eat it before you fall asleep.”

“Those aren’t vegan,” Rachel protests.

“No, but they’re going to be good for your blood sugar _and_ they’re fucking delicious. Seriously, Rach--humor me?”

Rachel smiles weakly and closes her eyes, and Santana skids back into the kitchen on her socks, toasting the Pop-tart in record time and then heading back to Rachel’s.

Rachel eats the Pop-tart slowly, and then sighs. “What am I doing?”

“You’re eating a Pop-tart,” Santana points out, because it’s like midnight or some shit and she has this ridiculously demanding English workshop at 10am the next day. “In New York. Concrete jungle, blah blah blah.”

“Yeah,” Rachel says, taking a deep breath. “This is disgustingly good.”

“I told you,” Santana says, softly, and sits on the edge of Rachel’s bed until she falls asleep.

She considers emailing Rachel’s dads that their little princess is attempting to do way too fucking much at once, but like, she’d fucking murder Rachel if she did anything like that with her mom, so...

Whatever. Rachel’s a big girl, and she’ll sort her shit out.

*

In the weeks leading up to Thanksgiving, they sort of work out a new routine, because she’s watching Rachel more closely now--and doing a bit more shit around the house because honestly, two jobs and three classes does not compare with the bare amount of class time Santana has to deal with--and whatever, they _are_ friends. Her classmates are cool enough, and they’ve been hanging out a lot, but they’re never going to know what she was like prior to coming to New York, and maybe there’s just something relaxing about being around Rachel, who accepts that the end of a day of classes she just wants to lie on the sofa in sleep shorts and watch a Jersey Shore marathon.

Barnard is _seriously_ pretentious, which is funny, because Santana always knew on some level that she was pretentious by Lima standards, but that’s nothing compared to this. Getting a B on a test is equivalent to having herpes, basically. So she studies her ass off, and spends a lot of time trolling around different parts of New York to find new places to drink way too much coffee and read another incomprehensible book on feminism.

(Not that she doesn’t _enjoy_ it; shockingly, she really does. Just, you know, there’s other shit in life as well, and that’s the thing that most of the other Barnard girls seem to be missing. Some part of her thinks Rachel would have a blast there, going to Amnesty rallies about prisoner’s rights and whatever as like a _fun Saturday_ thing, but she’d rather just go shopping, thanks.)

Anyway, her many explorations somehow land her in a Starbucks on the Lower East Side right around where Rachel’s bakery is, and they bump into each other at the counter, which is so lame that it’s almost funny.

“What brings you here?” Rachel asks, ordering some gross venti latte thing, and Santana shrugs.

“Different reading location. You?”

“It’s halfway between the bakery and the theater, fair trade, and right off the subway home, so,” Rachel says, with a shrug.

“Cool,” Santana says, before ordering a _real_ fucking coffee.

They basically don’t say a single word to each other the entire afternoon, because she’s got Gertrude Stein and Rachel’s reading some sort of script or something in front of her, but whatever, it’s kind of nice that way.

“I’m off to work,” Rachel says, finally. “But it was nice seeing you in daylight.”

“Don’t be gay,” Santana says, rolling her eyes.

(But it kind of was.)

*

That is the start of the routine; the rest of it involves who cooks on what nights (pretty much determined by Rachel’s schedule) and when they go grocery shopping together, and like, whatever.

One day, they run into Erin at Fairway (which, really, Santana would rather be shot in the fucking head than go there on a Saturday but they need some house supplies and buying them at any of the other local supermarkets would be insane), who is immediately like, “Oh, is this your girlfriend?”

Rachel laughs and says, “Noooo.”

“My roommate, Rachel; Rachel, this is Erin. She’s from Canada,” Santana says, with a smirk, because that’s how everyone introduces Erin and it drives her fucking crazy.

Erin shakes Rachel’s hand and then says, “Seriously though--there’s money riding on this, so be honest. She _has_ a girlfriend, right?”

Rachel laughs again and says, “I’d pity the poor girl who had to date her, honestly.”

“Hey,” Santana says, elbowing Rachel in the side. “I’m a catch.”

“Just because people can catch things _from you_ doesn’t mean you’re a catch, sweetie,” Rachel says, without blinking.

“I’m going to kill you,” Santana promises, but Rachel just grins and says, “She’s single. Don’t ask me why, because you’re right, she is ridiculously attractive.”

“Until she talks, anyway,” Erin agrees.

Santana sighs and wanders off to buy some more Pop-tarts (disappearing like crazy now that Rachel’s discovered they’re basically straight from heaven), because apparently they’re going to be total dicks about her _to her face_ unless she just wanders off.

“We’re going to a party tonight,” Rachel tells her, about five minutes later, when Santana hesitantly ambles back to where they’re probably still talking about her embarrassing lack of game, or whatever. (Seriously, she hasn’t had _time_.) “Erin’s nice. I can’t believe you haven’t introduced me to your friends yet.”

“Well, you haven’t introduced me to _yours_ ,” Santana points out, because Rachel obviously knows a fuckload of people through her jobs and her acting and dancing classes, and whatever.

“You’re not …” Rachel starts to say, hesitating for a second.

Santana rolls her eyes. “Compared to them, you’re not even all that fucking weird, so no.”

“Okay. … so, we’re going to a party tonight,” Rachel says, with a big smile on her face.

“Don’t clap like a seal in public.”

“I _wasn’t_ \--” Rachel protests, before frowning. “I don’t clap like a seal.”

“Uh huh,” Santana says.

*

The party’s weird. It’s a _wine tasting_ party.

Santana didn’t think she’d ever really miss Puck’s underclassed booze-fests, because seriously, his basement is just full of hook-ups she’d rather _not_ think about, but this is just fucking awful.

“Don’t be a spoilsport,” Rachel says, pulling her further into the apartment (it’s in the Village, which should’ve really been warning enough) and somehow weaving through the incredibly douchy crowd without any problems.

Santana lets herself be pulled along, and then Rachel sees Erin and there’s like a _hug_ and shit and--how long did she even leave those two alone at Fairway? Whatever.

“Everyone, this is Rachel, who _isn’t_ Santana’s girlfriend,” Erin says, with a lot of emphasis. “Rachel, this is everyone.”

“I’m sure Santana’s said a lot about us, and I promise we’re not actually nearly as annoying as she claims we are,” Mel says, somehow managing to make a glass of Merlot look butch. It’s impressive.

“She’s said nothing but wonderful things,” Rachel says, that fucking diplomat, and Santana rolls her eyes so hard that it actually hurts.

They get handed some wine to taste within moments, and Rachel somehow strikes up a conversation with _everyone_ and Santana’s just kind of like, whatever. She’s not a big wine fan, but it’s the only thing making this evening work.

“ _Why_ aren’t you tapping that?” Kelly asks, because weird dining habits aside she’s actually the most normal of all of them.

“Straight; boyfriend; way too much history,” Santana ticks off in that order. “Plus, she’s not really my type.”

“What’s your type?”

“Brittany,” Santana says, without thinking, and then sighs. “That’s shorthand for tall, blonde, leggy, and--hot.”

“Ah, there’s a mystery woman from the past. Godammit, Candice is going to be insufferable; that was her take on why you’re not seeing anyone. We owe her like fifty bucks, put together,” Kelly complains.

Santana smiles unwillingly (it’s possibly just a natural side-effect of the second class of Merlot, or something) and then says, “She’s not a mystery. She’s just... not mine.”

“God, that’s depressing,” Kelly says, slinging an arm around her back. “I’m going to make you drink some more, and then we can talk shit about her, if you want.”

“Not really necessary,” Santana says, but whatever. It’s nice that they’re offering.

*

Wine gives _terrible_ hangovers, and of course this is a weekend when Sam is visiting, so the doorbell rings at some ungodly hour (that guy starts driving at like 6am to be in the city limits at a decent time) and Rachel pads down the hallway like a fucking grizzly, and then she can hear them laughing and kissing and just covers her head with a pillow.

She sleeps for another five hours, and finally appears in the kitchen in some boxers and a t-shirt, where Sam is making an omelet or something.

“Ugh, I could for real kiss you right now,” she says, leaning against the counter.

“Even with these lips?” he asks.

Wine makes her fucking ridiculous, because next thing she knows, she’s sort of hugging his back and saying, “Whatever. No homo.”

“Fuck, Santana, we’re _so_ friends,” he says, and she just laughs.

“Where’s your woman?”

“Passed out,” he says, with a little smile. “What did you do to her last night?”

“Merlot. Cabernet. Shiraz. Rioja. … maybe something else, it gets a little fuzzy after the Rioja,” Santana says, hopping up onto the counter next to him. “How’s Philly?”

“Cool,” Sam says, expertly flipping the egg. “It’s nice, actually. You guys should come visit.”

“We will, if Mary fucking Poppins can find a gap in her schedule,” Santana says, with a yawn. “Seriously, she’s trying to kill herself or something. The only reason I ever see her is because we have coffee together every day.”

Sam turns off the gas and watches the omelet set for another moment, and then transfers it to a plate before handing that to Santana. He immediately cracks another two eggs and turns on a different burner, and like--when did he become so fucking culinary?

“Does she ever talk about Juilliard?” he asks, after a moment.

“No,” Santana says, and it’s funny, actually, because they’ve literally been everywhere in New York together at this point (well, not actually, but it _feels_ like it) but somehow they’ve always managed to avoid that part of town. It’s a hard building to miss, which is why she _knows_ they’ve been avoiding it, even if she’d not really realized that before. “Why?”

Sam hesitates and then says, in a much quieter voice, “There is something there that she’s not telling me. She mentioned it once, and I asked Hiram about it, but--I don’t know. I don’t think she wants to talk to _me_ about it, so maybe...”

“Samuel, if she doesn’t want to talk about it, she doesn’t want to talk about it,” Santana says, before unintentionally moaning at the first bite of egg. “Fuck me, that’s good.”

“You wishing you weren’t a lesbian right now?” he asks, with a grin.

“Maybe just that I hadn’t been such a bitch to your Jamie Oliver ass. Seriously,” she says, kicking at his side.

He smiles and then runs a hand through his hair, which is like, girly-long, and okay, maybe she just likes Sam because he’s totally a lesbian, much like her. “Seriously, though. Can you maybe--just see what she says, if you bring it up?”

“We’ll see,” she says, and then heads over to the couch. “You fine with cartoons?”

“Dude, they’re re-running the 90s X-Men cartoon on the Nick right now. It’s awesome,” Sam responds.

Sometimes, Santana thinks it would be fantastic if he just moved in with them.

*

She doesn’t think about Juilliard again until early November, when Mel and Candice propose they go and see one of the interpretative dance series things they’re hosting in the fall, and she’s eating a bag of Cheetos (seriously, _not_ being a cheerleader is the best thing _ever_ ) when she brings it up randomly to Rachel.

“Like, I think it’s the douchiest thing on earth, interpretative dance, but like--you’re into that kind of shit, aren’t you?” she asks, tilting her head back until she can see Rachel.

Rachel’s ironing a shirt like an inch over (aka the only place they could fit the ironing board) and like, goddamn, she almost drops the iron on Santana’s face, which is _not_ okay. Also not okay, that look on Rachel’s face at Juilliard.

“Contrary to popular opinion, I don’t actually appreciate all forms of art,” she says, a little tightly, before steadily running the iron over the shirt collar again.

“Yeah, but--it’s Juilliard. They’re going to be _good_ , which probably makes a difference.”

“Santana--I’m not interested,” Rachel says, even more shortly.

She lets it be, for now, because Rachel _never_ snaps at her, so this is probably for a really good fucking reason.

(Some part of her doesn’t even _want_ to know what’s up, because things are going fine and they’ve got a good routine and she doesn’t need to go prodding around to try and screw that up just because _Sam_ has an issue.)

*

They go home, for Thanksgiving. Santana, if she’s honest, misses her mom and Quinn, and Rachel looks like she might actually die if she doesn’t see her dads soon, and Sam picks them up for the drive over.

One day, she would’ve thought that spending twelve hours in a car with Sam and Rachel would’ve fucking killed her, but they’re actually fine, listening to an audio book in the front and just loosely holding hands on top of the console.

She naps most of the way over, and wakes up to them arguing about something.

“Why won’t you just tell me?” Sam asks.

“Because there is nothing _to tell,_ ” Rachel snaps, and turns her head abruptly to stare out the window.

“Rach, it’s just weird, okay? If going to Juilliard is something that you really want to do--”

Santana contemplates launching herself out of a moving car for like, a second, but instead just lies there as silently as she can and, okay, so maybe she feels around for her iPod because sometimes, _not_ listening in on a conversation is just better than other things.

“It’s _not_ ,” Rachel says, emphatically (and a little hysterically). “I know this probably all feels really new and important to you, but I’ve been thinking about what to do after high school since I was ten years old and I very deliberately scrapped Juilliard off the list. It’s 200,000 dollars of debt to learn something that I can do _without_ going to school, because I’ve been doing it since I was three years old.”

“Juilliard can make you better at it,” Sam says, softly. “Won’t it improve your shot in a serious way? I mean, I don’t know much about this other than what I’ve learned on Wikipedia, but--”

She’s just about got one earbud in her ear when Rachel bursts into tears, and okay, throwing herself out of a moving vehicle is starting to sound a lot better with every passing second.

She spots Sam’s frantic look over, then in the rearview mirror at her, and he gets them off at the next exit, parking outside of a McDonalds by Youngstown and really, she doesn’t even know who gets out of the car faster, her or Rachel.

“Sam, don’t,” she hisses at him, before slamming her door shut, and then heads after Rachel, who (predictably) heads towards a restroom neither of them will ever use for hygiene reasons. It has paper towels, though, and so she corners Rachel and says, “Stop moving, I’m just fixing your make-up.”

“That _asshole_ ,” Rachel sort of sobs, and she clearly doesn’t mean a word of it. “Why won’t he just drop it?”

“Because he cares about your crazy ass, and seriously, Rachel, I’ve seen a lot of crazy on you but this is like a new level,” Santana says, not without sincerity, and starts dabbing at Rachel’s face. “What the fuck is going on with you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Rachel says, shaking her head. “I made my decision, and--”

“So why are you so fucking upset about it?”

Another wave of tears shows up, and Rachel swats her hand away and actually just cries into her own hands for a moment. “Do you have any idea how many auditions I’ve been to in the past two months?”

Santana doesn’t, because Rachel doesn’t talk about it. “I don’t know, like, ten?” That sounds like an over-achieving enough number.

“Thirty-five,” Rachel says, and then wipes at her eyes so angrily that she almost scratches her own cheek. “Thirty-five, and not even for _leads_ , just for chorus, or even understudy, and--”

“Rachel. It’s been like two months,” Santana says, as gently as she can.

“Yeah, and that means I only have _four left_ , okay?” Rachel blurts out.

Santana sighs and sits down next to her (grateful as fuck to be wearing jeans, obviously) and then says, “Start from the beginning. Like, whatever that is. You are making _no_ fucking sense right now, and this is clearly a big thing, so just start from the top.”

Rachel takes a feel deep breaths and then says, “The Juilliard tuition would’ve bankrupted my dads.”

“You could’ve taken out loans,” Santana says, after a moment, because hell, it’s not like she isn’t doing that, or Quinn isn’t. It’s par for the course with college.

“Not without making them underwrite. Not for this amount of money,” Rachel says, and tilts her head back against the ratty-ass white tiles that surround them. “And, I was going to do it, you know? Of course I was. I’ve wanted to go to Juilliard since I was six years old and learned how to spell it, and who had gone there, and how much I wanted to be like them. I never thought anything different, and then--”

Santana sits and watches her face carefully, ready to attack with some more paper towel, but Rachel just bites her lip and shakes her head.

“I heard them talking about it, at the start of junior year. They planned so well. But they planned for a normal child; one who would want to go to a good college, maybe even Ivy League. But not the world’s most expensive and only-rarely-scholarship-granting private conservatory.”

“They’re not exactly fucking _unhappy_ that you turned out to be some sort of musical prodigy,” Santana says, because Black Berry is over the moon about that shit and Berry White is basically the most supportive if overbearing parent she’s ever seen. Rachel has that guy in her pocket, for real.

“No, they’re not. And they wanted me to go, but then they started actually doing the math on the degree,” Rachel says, with a hitch in her voice. “And--I heard them talking about it. And all their savings would barely even cover one year in the city. So they talked about the loans, and the rates they’d have to get, and how much they’d have to underwrite to even get access to that amount of money--and then Daddy said, ‘That’s a lot of money to put into a career where she has about a five percent chance of ever earning it back’.”

Santana watches the absolute hurt on Rachel’s face and just reaches for her leg, rubbing her calf. “They didn’t fucking _mean_ \--”

“It’s the statistics. I know it is,” Rachel says, easily enough, with a small smile. “I just never thought I’d be hearing it from my _dads_ , because even when everyone else thought I was deluded--you know, even when high school made me want to just close my eyes and stop breathing, they _always_ believed in me.”

“Rachel...” Santana just says, because man, why the hell is _she_ hearing this? Where the fuck is Sam?

“They fought about Juilliard every night for two months, and every night one of them would bring up, ‘but what if she doesn’t make it?’ as a reason to not take out the loans, and--I’m still a dependent, of course. So it’s not like...” Rachel sighs and rubs at her eyes again. “I wanted to prove them wrong. And _then_ ask for the money.”

“Prove them wrong how?”

Rachel sort of laughs at herself and says, “I was going to land a role. In six months, you know. Show them that I have what it takes anyway; that this is only going to help me.”

“Yeah, okay, so--”

“So--I’m so tired I can barely stand most nights,” she says, with a glance at Santana’s hand, which is still digging into her calf. “All I do is run from one job to the next because I’m trying not to burn through my college fund by just _existing_ , and I want to show them that I’m worth the money, but it’s been thirty-five auditions for _bit parts_ and I’m … I’m just like every other girl with big dreams in a city full of big dreams. I’m not anything special.”

“Oh, get the fuck off it,” Santana finally gets in, pinching Rachel’s leg hard just to make a point.

Rachel stares at her in surprise.

“You know, I can’t even believe I’m saying this, but are you kidding me, Rachel? _Six months_ to break into a career that like, twenty people are successful at in the entire fucking world?” Santana rolls her eyes. “Insert a joke here about how that’s special, all right.”

“I knew you wouldn’t--” Rachel mumbles after a moment.

“No, I _do_ get it. I mean, I don’t, because my parents pretty much expected me to just jerk around Lima the rest of my life and get passable grades but never gave a shit about what happened to me. Your dads, on the other hand, want the very fucking best for you, and have some pretty legitimate concerns about throwing yourself into a fine arts education that will basically _bankrupt_ you until you’re forty, and you’re sitting here crying about how they don’t believe in you. Are you for _real_ right now?”

Rachel stares at her mutely.

“And then what, your solution to their serious discussion is to freak out completely and not go to college, full stop?”

“I was planning on going,” Rachel says, tightly. “I just wanted to--”

“Prove a point. I know, I heard your crazy ass the first time.” Santana takes a deep breath and then actually leans forward and slaps Rachel in the side of the head. “You’re a fucking idiot. Your dads aren’t _me and Quinn and Finn_ , or any of those other fucking tools in glee who were just so threatened by you that they tried to make you feel like shit.”

“You weren’t threatened by me, you hated me,” Rachel amends, sounding only three percent bitter about it.

“It’s _both_ , Rachel,” Santana spits out. “I know you don’t get this, at _all_ , but when you’re the prom queen, or the head of the cheerleading squad that won nationals year after year, you can really only go _down_. I walk around New York feeling like a fucking _nobody_ most of the time. And then I look at you, with all your fucking confidence and talent, and I’m like, what the fuck am I even doing here?”

“Santana, you’re obviously smart enough to be going to Barnard,” Rachel says. Like she means it.

“Yeah, and you’re obviously smart enough to know that this is fucking _stupid_ , Rachel.”

Rachel closes her eyes. “I know you don’t understand this, because your parents excel at buying your affection--”

“Oh, fuck _you,_ Rachel,” Santana says, almost on her feet again immediately.

“I don’t mean anything by it,” Rachel amends, pulling her back down. “It’s just, our families are decidedly different, financially and emotionally. My dads have given up so much for me already. All the classes and training and summer camps... God, I just can’t bring myself to ask. I know what it’d be doing to their finances, and--”

“Yeah, and? Is Juilliard seriously the only place on earth where you can get a decent fine arts education?”

“No,” Rachel says, quietly. “It’s just--what I’ve always wanted.”

“Yeah, well, we can’t always get what we want,” Santana says, not nearly as harshly as she could, and Rachel smiles faintly after a moment.

“This is possibly the worst pep talk I’ve ever had, and for clarity, most of my previous pep talks have come from Mr. Schuester.”

“Bitch, you didn’t _need_ a pep talk,” Santana says, because _really_. “But if you get off your ass, I’m pretty sure there's a guy pacing frantically by his car who would be really happy to give you a hug right now.”

Rachel gets to her feet gingerly, and then gives her a very serious look before pulling her into a hug. “You’re a good friend.”

“Whatever. Do you have any fucking idea how awkward it is to listen to two people fight when you’re stuck in the back seat of their fucking car?”

“Santana, seriously. Stop deflecting for a moment and just let me thank you,” Rachel mumbles, against her neck.

“You’re welcome, Berry,” she sighs, because she knows it’s the only way Rachel is ever going to give up.

*

Sam looks terrified, as predicted, but then relieved when they both walk out with all their clothing intact and only a few tear tracks running down Rachel’s face.

“Are we good?” he asks, ducking down to meet Rachel’s eyes. “I’m sorry, I had no idea that--”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” Rachel says, before standing on her toes and giving him a hug. “Just--you know. Get us home, please.”

It’s weird to be envious of two of the lamest people on earth, but the look of relief on Sam’s face when Rachel seems more or less okay again is something special.

*

She squeezes the fuck out of Quinn, who’s already at her house, obviously, and then does the same with her mom.

“God, it’s good to be back,” she finds herself saying over dinner that night, and everyone at the table--including her dad--looks really surprised. “What? I just mean seeing everyone. I still hate Lima with a burning passion.”

“It’s not the same without you, I’m sure,” Quinn says.

They sleep in the same bed that night, just because they can, and Santana says, “Do you still have your NYU admissions shit?”

“‘course,” Quinn says, sleepily. “It’s here, actually.”

“I might need to borrow it for a few hours,” Santana says, staring at the ceiling and wondering what the hell kind of conversation Rachel is having with her dads right now.

(There’s probably a lot of crying, and even more hugging, so really: she’s fucking glad that her night consists mostly of hearing about Puck’s incredibly bad pick-up lines that really haven’t gotten him an inch closer to Quinn’s panties.)

*

Puck takes her and Quinn out to dinner later the next day, with some money he’s made working in a fitness club in Columbus, and really, it’s one of the best nights she’s had in a long while. They meet up with Sam and Rachel to go bowling, for old time’s sake, and Sam pulls her aside and says, “Whatever you said to her, dude, seriously--”

“No big,” Santana says, and then laughs as Rachel nearly knocks Puck’s jaw out of location with an errant bowling ball.

Some things never change.

(Maybe, she kind of likes it that way, given that everything else has changed a little too fucking fast in the past few months.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all the usual suspects & B, with a special shout-out to those of you who made me drabble yesterday. It dislodged something that was kind of stuck in my brain, and here's the result. (This is still 300% unrealistic wrt New York City, as my perception is primarily based on GTA 4... geographically, anyway.)

2.

So.

Lesbians are fucking _awful_.

Not like she didn’t know that already from television or whatever, but one peek into the Columbia annual LGBT mixer (which somehow doesn’t take place until November) and she hightails it out of there like her ass is on fire. What is _wrong_ with people? Seriously. Being into a little vajayjay isn’t an excuse for just letting everything _go_ like that. Where the hell do people even buy this much corduroy?

(She knows one thing, though: when she gets older she’s buying shares in Doc Marten’s. Those are apparently _never_ going out of fashion.)

She calls Rachel to complain about all of this by way of a compliment--”Congrats, you’re officially no longer the worst dressed person I’ve seen in my life”--and about twenty minutes later, they spot each other in the Starbucks they always have coffee at in the afternoon and hang up.

Santana slides her sunglasses up and Rachel closes the book she’s reading, with a somewhat amused smile.

“Subculture not treating you like the royalty you are?”

“Subculture can kiss this fine ass,” she responds, before glancing at Rachel’s cup. “The usual?”

Rachel nods and starts digging around her bag for some change, but whatever. The reality of it is, Rachel pays _most_ of the rent between her two jobs and does most of the cooking so the least she can do, really, is pay for most of the other shit.

She crankily sits down across from Rachel with their drinks a few minutes later and sighs. “Seriously, though. Why are all fucking lesbians so _ugly_? I mean--I’m not. Where the hell are my dopplegangers?”

“Probably not at a singles mixer,” Rachel points out mildly, reaching for her vegan chai latte and grudgingly adding some probably-not-vegan-or-whatever sugar to it. “Which, let’s face it, is the primary reason for the existence of most college LGBT groups.”

“Whatever. I mean it, though. I’m actually fucking _dying_ here,” Santana complains. “Not that it’s not a crime against humanity to be made to listen to you and Obi Wan Kedorki going at it until all fucking hours anyway, but it’s worse when I’m not getting any at all myself.”

Rachel goes puce almost instantaneously. “You can _hear_ us?”

“Well, _you_ ,” Santana says, hiding a grin behind the rim of her cappuccino. “And, really, he shouldn’t need that many fucking instructions to get to goal at this point, babe. You’re a girl, you’re not a fucking supercomputer.”

Rachel hmphs. “I know for a fact I don’t _actually_ instruct him to do anything, so as per always, you’re just being needlessly vulgar.”

“What’re you reading?” Santana asks, because Rachel isn’t offended, but she knows when to knock it off.

Rachel flips the book around and Santana raises her eyebrows at it. “Um.”

“You should read it when I’m done. It’s more relevant to you,” Rachel says.

“Yeah, because I live in the regency and am trying to have an affair with my female servant.”

(What? She’s never going to an Indigo Girls concert, but she’s spent some time reading Autostraddle and shit. It’s hard _not_ to know who Sarah Waters is.)

Rachel rolls her eyes. “I meant because it’s _gay literature._ ” It sort of comes out in an urgent hiss, and Santana laughs.

“Rach, I don’t need to read that shit. I know what I like, and I also know what to _do_ , so--” She pauses mid-sentence and looks at Rachel. “Wait. Why are _you_ reading it?”

“Research for a role,” Rachel says.

“A role?”

“An audition,” she amends, and then sighs. “Look--do you want me to set you up with Ellie?”

“Who?” Santana asks, because Rachel has like twenty million starving actor friends or whatever, and she really can’t be bothered to learn what they’re called unless she’s going to _meet_ them.

“My jazz dance partner. She has excellent posture and great skin.”

“Are those seriously her best selling points? Because I’m looking to _get laid_ , not to breed.”

Rachel’s smile is half-hearted but there. “Five foot five, red hair but not in one of those weird cornfed ginger ways, average sized breasts... She’s also really sweet, which is why I’ve hesitated to bring her up before now--”

“Oh, that’s great. Thanks, you bitch.”

“ _\--and_ funny. I think you’ll like her.”

Santana considers this for a moment; another tour of heifer city and/or actually letting Rachel _drag_ her to gay bars, which again, not something she ever saw herself doing (not alone, anyway, or with the world’s biggest PFLAG icon that ever was). No thank you.

But then, this chick--whatever her name is--is also Rachel’s _friend_ , which means that fucking her and never talking to her again is probably not in the cards. Though maybe she can be a little delicate about it, and whatever, she’s Rachel’s _jazz dance_ partner, not her fucking soulmate.

“What’s her name?” she finally asks.

Rachel rolls her eyes and reaches for her phone. “I’ll forward her number. If you can, try not to be a total pig about whatever scandalous proposition just passed your mind. For the record, you telegraph your thoughts about as much as Puck does, and no, it’s not more appealing on a girl.”

Santana just grins and says, “Seriously though--what’s her name?”

*

She meets up with Ellie after Stats for Econ; they go out for lunch together at a nearby deli on Amsterdam and yeah, it’s not too bad for a blind date or whatever.

Rachel actually didn’t set her up with a total fucking gnome, so there is that. Ellie’s cute enough, not shy, and absolutely nothing like Brittany, so there’s that, also. Best of all, she doesn’t seem to be too affronted by Santana being Santana (she can’t help a really snarky comment about the waitress’ footwear and Ellie, instead of looking at her like sarcasm is the basest form of humor, actually just smiles), and it pretty much goes well.

When they’re done, and she even fucking holds the door open, Ellie looks at her and says, “You’re not what I was expecting.”

“I’m sorry?” Santana asks, mentally already strangling Rachel.

“Yeah, Rachel apologized profusely in advance for making me do this. She said that you were probably just going to ask me to sleep with you without even paying for lunch, but hey, you paid _and_ didn’t bring up sleeping with me for a whole two hours, so I think that counts as a success,” Ellie says, with a smile.

“I’m going to kill her,” Santana grumbles, but it _is_ kind of funny and Ellie doesn’t seem all that bothered about it either, so in the end she ends up laughing.

“It’s fine,” Ellie says. They amble down Amsterdam together for a moment and then Ellie glances at her and says, “So do you _not_ want to sleep with me?”

Santana blinks hard, twice, and then says, “No. I mean, I’m up for it. Sleeping, whatever.”

(Jesus Christ, what is she-- _Sam_?)

“Okay, well, I don’t know where you live but I’m in Jersey so yours will _probably_ be quicker,” Ellie says.

Santana nods after a second and they head back over to the subway; she honestly doesn’t know what the fuck to say right now, because even in high school, hook-ups were more about eye contact and raising eyebrows and dragging people up stairs. Nobody has ever just straight up _asked_ her like this, and verbally or otherwise, she’s usually been the one asking.

Ellie looks amused by whatever look she has on her face, and she pulls it together a little because Puck would _never_ stop giving her shit about this if she’s going to be all nervous about it. It’s not her first time, for God’s sake. It’s not even her first time doing it with someone whose last _name_ she doesn’t know.

No attempts are made for hand-holding or anything gay like that, and Santana mutely guides them back to the apartment, praying that Rachel is still off at some sort of fucking singing lesson or that her work’s running late, or this will a) not happen and/or b) be so fucking awkward she’s never going to be able to enter her own home again.

Thankfully, the place is empty, and Santana quickly kicks some of her dirty clothing into a corner in her bedroom before looking at Ellie expectantly. “So--now what?”

Ellie just laughs and says, “Seriously--are you a virgin? …Rachel is so wrong about you.”

“No, I’m not a _virgin_ , I just--” Santana fumbles, and she wants to say something stupid about how this isn’t how sex _works_ in high school but sweet Jesus, that just makes her sound like a child, so instead she shrugs out of her jacket and sits down on her bed.

“Long term relationship?” Ellie asks, unbuttoning her own coat, and Santana sighs and says, “Yeah”, because that’s _sort_ of the problem.

“Rough,” Ellie says, tossing her coat over to the desk, and Santana stares as she just keeps going. “But here’s the thing about New York: nobody knows who you are, and you can move on in whatever way you like.”

“Yeah,” Santana says, again, because now there’s _jeans_ sliding down legs, and she feels like she should be doing something. (This must be what Finn felt like, back when--and that is possibly _the least_ sexy thought she’s ever had, so it’s probably for the best that Ellie is now straddling her and starting to pull her scarf off her neck.)

“Just relax. I’ll go easy on you,” she says, with a little smile that maybe _does_ remind Santana a little bit of Brittany, but when Ellie kisses her a moment later, there’s very little that’s similar about them at all.

(That’s not a bad thing. It really isn’t.)

*

Ellie laughs afterwards, before rolling over and reaching for her shirt again. “Good. That was much better than I was expecting. Seriously, you looked _so_ shell-shocked.”

“Shut up,” Santana mumbles, but fuck, she’s sleepy, and this is the thing about girls: they just keep _going and going_. Rachel is going to be home any moment now, and that’s probably the only reason they’re not still at it--she vaguely remembers bringing it up, anyway.

“Thanks for lunch, anyway,” Ellie says, and then she’s all buttoned up and ready to head out again. Santana feels a kiss being pressed to her head. “Call me sometime. There’s a group of us that hang out--I’m pretty sure my friend Karen actually goes to Columbia, so you two should meet up.”

It doesn’t feel like it’s any sort of request for _anything_ , really, and Santana blinks one eye open as Ellie wanders out.

New York is so fucking weird sometimes; it’s not even six pm and some girl she bought a fucking _sub_ for just went down on her for like an hour.

(She texts exactly that to Puck, who sends back _fuck you Lopez, so jealous my balls hurt_.)

*

Rachel comes home at around 8pm and looks incredibly surprised that dinner is not only _ready,_ but also consists of more than a salad or whatever. Then, she looks disappointed.

“Oh. Did you two not hit it off?”

Santana laughs because she _knows_ she looks like she just got fucked, like, seriously, but apparently Rachel is too precious to pick up on that. “Wouldn’t put it _that_ way, exactly.”

Rachel gasps. “Did you have intercourse with her and then throw her out?”

Santana just sort of shrugs while finishing the dressing to the salad (of course there’s _a_ salad, she just also made pasta), before sampling a bit with her index finger (Rachel _hates_ that shit) and humming in approval. Great dressing. Probably due to her good mood.

Rachel stares at her for a moment longer and then says, “You’re disgusting. I thought Noah was bad, but--”

“Rach, she invited herself over, we had sex, it was nice, and then _she_ left,” Santana says, shrugging when Rachel just gapes at her some more. “This is New York. What did you think, that we’d get married?”

“Well, _no_ \--”

“She’s going to put me in touch with some of her friends, I guess.” She drains the pasta and then says, “So yeah, thanks for hooking us up. If they’re all as good looking as her, I guess I’ve found some gays in New York that I don’t mind being seen with.”

Rachel still looks a little scandalized but sits down on the sofa anyway, and within about a minute Santana presents her with some food.

“So--are you going to see her again?” Rachel finally asks, pricking at the pasta shells with her fork.

Santana thinks about it for a moment while chewing and then shrugs. “I don’t think so, not like that. But maybe.”

“So you _really_ just had sex with her,” Rachel repeats.

“Jesus, stop being so Ohio,” Santana says, with a frown. “It’s not like this isn’t _exactly_ what I did in high school.”

“You were sexually _repressed_ in high school,” Rachel counters, a little heatedly. “You weren’t whoring yourself around because you wanted to, you did it to hide your latent lesbianism.”

“Um, first of all, what are you, fucking Oprah? I slept with a lot of people because I _wanted_ to. And thanks for calling me a whore, that’s just great,” Santana says, rolling her eyes. She turns the TV on a moment later because clearly Rachel is just going to be a cunt about this and whatever, she’s _not_ going to let this ruin her mood.

Rachel eats her pasta silently and then heads into the kitchen for the salad.

“This dressing is really good,” she grudgingly says, a moment later.

“Yeah, you know what really made it pop? The real butter I added at the end,” Santana says, feigning innocence.

“I hate you,” Rachel responds, but it’s with a small smile.

“You done being a bitch about me _finally_ getting some action?” Santana asks, when she’s found Anchorman on On Demand and Rachel just lets her put it on without argument. (She was all ready to counter with a whole bunch of stuff about how comedy is a great art form and someone who owns “Trapped In the Closet” really just can’t judge, but whatever.)

“I just don’t want things to be weird with Ellie,” Rachel mumbles, but then sighs and adds, “However, you are both functional adults and I have to accept that your consensual sexual decisions may not reflect _my_ morals, but--”

“Rach--how about you just can it while you’re ahead, huh?”

Rachel does, and they watch the movie in sort of companionable silence again.

Santana’s just about to head over to bed because, really, _she’s fucking tired_ (and it’s awesome), but then Rachel produces a bottle of wine from the kitchen and sits down next to her again, with a big ass sigh. “So. I assume the traditional thing to do here is to talk about how it was?”

“Um,” Santana says, blinking at her. “What?”

“With your girl friends. Isn’t that the normal thing to do?” Rachel says, pouring them both a glass.

She looks _terrified_ that Santana is actually going to talk about this, which is the only reason that Santana doesn’t immediately tell her to stop being fucking crazy. (Seriously though: her best friend is _Quinn_ , who basically crosses herself when the word ‘pussy’ is mentioned. Sometimes, Rachel really does act like she got dropped as a child.)

“Okay,” Santana says, taking the wine, and prolonging the terror for a moment. “So she stripped in front of me, and then she straddled me, and then we kissed.”

“I see,” Rachel says. “Was it good?”

“S’all right. I’ve had better,” Santana says, honestly; and clearly this isn’t scandalizing Rachel enough, so it’s time to up the stakes. “But she was really good with her fingers. Like, _really_ good. Imagine Sam touching you like he has a clue what he’s doing. … actually, don’t. I think you’ll hurt yourself pretending.”

Rachel rolls her eyes, downs the rest of the wine, but then somehow casually says, “She plays the piano. I hear that helps.”

“I’ll back that theory up,” Santana says, before going for broke. “Anyway; then we got bored of my bed, so we did it in yours--”

“ _What_?”

“Oh, and on the sofa--right about where you’re sitting. That was probably the best time. I was a little rusty, so--you know. Third time was gold.”

Rachel stares at her in outrage and then her eyes narrow. “Is this your very clever way of saying you don’t want to talk about it?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” Santana says, with a grin.

“No _wonder_ she doesn’t want to see you again,” Rachel mutters, and then heads to her bedroom.

(Santana sticks a post-it note with a smiley and ‘change your sheets!’ on her door for the next day.)

*

So yeah, a few orgasms pretty much clear her mind.

She kicks ass on her pre-finals and then figures that her actual finals will also be fine, and the rest of the time she’s spending not studying is mostly spent with Rachel, talking about what her options for next year are.

Juilliard is still not on the table, apparently, because even though Black and White Berry cried assloads at Rachel’s retarded gesture of self-sacrifice, everyone seems to have agreed that unless she’s going to be the next world famous concert pianist, _maybe_ Juilliard isn’t the best bet.

Either way, Rachel comes to her with all of her questions. They range from the incredibly broad to “Do you think I’ll like NYU?” to much more specific questions about various choices of secondary majors and so on and so forth, and at one point Rachel even decides to grill Santana on the FAFSA process, at which point Santana just says, “Do I look like your fucking financial planner?” and goes for a run.

It’s on that run that Santana realizes that Rachel is coming _to her_ with all of her questions, and when she gets back, sweaty and tired, Rachel is still just sitting there, frowning at the Tisch website.

“Why aren’t you talking to Sam about all of this?” she asks, uncapping her Nalgene and stretching out her calf. “College, I mean.”

“I am,” Rachel says, without looking up.

“Well, you’re talking to me more,” Santana points out, before gulping down some water.

Rachel looks away from the screen after a few more beats, during which time Santana gets the mother of all charley horses, and ends up sort of dumbly leaning against the fridge to try to massage it out.

“I’d rather make my life choices on the basis of advice given by people who stand to gain nothing from it,” she says, before closing her laptop and moving over. “Where is it?”

Santana almost says something dumb like, “Don’t touch me, I’m gross”, but Rachel’s already feeling around her thigh through her sweats and man, she has strong hands for such a fucking midget.

“Got it,” she finally hisses, when Rachel’s hands dig in. “And what do you mean, ‘nothing to gain’? I’m your fucking roommate. You not throwing your fucking future away because of some wounded pride is pretty good for my future housing options.”

Rachel rubs for another few seconds and then steps back. “Either way. I don’t see you telling me that UPenn is a great school with a theater department.”

“UPenn _is_ a great school. Bet it also has a theater department,” Santana points out, even though she’s pretty sure Rachel doesn’t want to hear that shit.

This is going from a semi-casual conversation about things one should and shouldn’t discuss with one’s boyfriend to something that she’s pretty sure Rachel shouldn’t be saying to _her_ first.

But, they’re out of the gate, and Rachel says, “He wants me to move to Philly.”

“Has he _met_ you?”

Rachel smiles faintly and leans against the back of the comfy chair, her hands digging into the fabric. “He has. He was there, you know, for the discussion with my dads. It unfortunately came with some admissions on my part that New York isn’t quite what I thought it would be, and even though he’d never push me to do something I don’t want to …”

“He loves you,” Santana points out. It seems like kind of a ‘duh’ moment, but sometimes the most obvious things aren’t obvious to the people _in_ them. She knows that first-hand.

“Yeah, and I love him,” Rachel says, easily enough, before rubbing at her forehead and sighing. “You’d think that would be enough, wouldn’t you?”

Santana shifts against the refrigerator uncomfortably and twists the cap back onto her Nalgene, and then just says, “Rach--he’s seriously one of my people now, so if you’re going to break up with him, do me a fucking favor and tell him before you tell me.”

Rachel looks surprised, and then apologetic, and finally just sad. “I’m--I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“Either way, telling me about it is bullshit because Sam’s my fucking friend. Call Kurt if you need some advice,” Santana says, warningly.

Her shirt is clinging to her and this conversation is making her really fucking unhappy, so she strips off her shirt and heads to the shower without waiting for Rachel to say anything else.

*

The Pink Mafia absorbs her easily.

Ellie’s friends are all either still in college or recent graduates and like, whatever, she feels like a baby about them, especially when Ellie introduces her with a smile and a, “Take it easy, girls, she’s hung up on someone”, like she’s some sort of fucking toddler that needs protecting.

She makes it a point to not be _that_ girl by following Karen (who looks a little bit like Halle Berry in Catwoman, so hitting that isn’t going to hurt one bit) to the bathroom and saying, “So, Columbia, huh? What are you majoring in?”

“Economics,” Karen says, washing her hands and giving Santana a slightly curious look. “You?”

This is how Santana finds out that saying _Women’s Studies_ in the right tone of voice basically obliterates any pre-existing pick-up line she might have had in mind.

(Other lessons: the bathroom stalls at Olive Garden really aren’t structurally sound, and fucking someone who has a little Halle Berry in Catwoman vibe going on results in some pretty deep scratch marks the next day.)

The best thing is that when they’re done fucking, Karen just washes her hands _again_ and says, “We should meet up after class sometime; I know Barnard’s a few blocks over, but we can meet halfway.”

“Whatever,” Santana says, fixing her gloss and doing something to sort of disguise that whole obvious-as-hell hair thing she has going on, and Karen sort of grins at her and says, “Ellie warned us about you.”

“I’m not damaged goods,” Santana says, with a glare.

“That’s _not_ what she warned us about,” Karen says, with a kiss to the side of her mouth, and then she’s alone.

Seriously, is it even normal for so many key moments of someone’s life to take place in bathrooms?

She’d ask Rachel, but they haven’t really been talking much, since that whole Sam conversation.

*

Puck comes to visit for a few days two weeks before Christmas--leaving Quinn behind to study or some shit, he’s not really specific about it--and brings basically all the alcohol in Columbus with him. Perks of being on the team, or something.

“Lesbian house party,” he says, giving Santana a pointed look. “Berry says you have like an army of hot muff munchers around you now, I want in on that shit.”

“Noah, the point of them being … into clam diving,” Rachel says, making a face; Santana can’t help laughing, “is that they by definition won’t be into _you_.”

“Seriously, dude, you need to give up,” Sam agrees, from behind Rachel, who is sitting on his lap, and yeah, Santana’s a little (or a lot) unamused about whatever Rachel is doing these days--but at least Rachel isn’t fucking talking to her about it anymore.

“Dudes, I don’t care if I strike out completely; sometimes, it’s all about what the fucking eye wants, and my eye right now wants to see some girls making out with each other,” Puck says, knuckling Santana’s head.

She shoves at him, but he’s had worse ideas; and really, those fucking Barnard girls need an update on what a normal party is like. “Oppressive as your borderline sexual harassment is bound to be, I figure we can hook this up. Rach?”

Rachel shrugs. “Why not? I don’t have exams.”

“Let me make some calls,” Santana says, because, really; parties, she can do.

*

Puck mixes them both some Long Islands and Santana sucks on a straw before surveying their crammed fucking apartment.

The thing about lesbians is that like _everything_ is a fucking phone chain; you invite one and you get hundreds. She’s pretty sure she’s going to trip her way into an orgy before leaving New York, at this rate.

“So, spill,” Puck says, leaning back and scanning the crowd as well. “What have you tapped?”

Jesus, they’re so much alike sometimes, Santana thinks, before tipping her glass across the room.

“Cute redhead over in the corner; really hot biracial girl by Sam and Rachel; that blonde, she’s originally from Denmark or something--her name is Anya and she’s pretty much famous for being underwear optional; and oh, that’s Chastity Chen--everyone’s been trying to set me up with her in like a serious way, which I’m not really sure I’m cool with yet,” Santana says, finally nodding at a small Asian girl who is talking to Mel and Kelly about something, animating with really small, sharp hand movements.

Puck puts down his drink and applauds her.

She laughs and rolls her eyes simultaneously. “Whatever, first of all, I have serious game, and second of all, this is like the _opposite_ of Lima. Not doing it on the first date basically makes you retarded. I’m pretty sure Quinn would be ushered into a convent if she showed up tomorrow. Or maybe subjected to a sexual exorcism or something.”

Puck’s lecherous expression drops for a moment at Quinn’s name, and Santana glances at him.

“Nah, it’s nothing,” he says, and then scratches at his head. “Just, you know, I love her. She’s the mother of my kid, she’s fucking hot as burning, and somehow being friends with you has even made her fun. I love her, but--”

He trails off, and Santana looks over to where Sam and Rachel are talking to Karen about something that she probably doesn’t want to know about--the Dork Twins talking to a hot girl, it can _only_ go wrong.

“Yeah, there’s a lot of that shit going around right now,” she mumbles, and finishes the rest of her drink before looking at where Chastity Chen is laughing and finishing the remainder of her drink.

There’s an opening, if she’s ever seen one.

*

Chastity spends the night, but Santana wakes up alone anyway. She pulls on the first pieces of clothing she can find before realizing she’s wearing jeans that are way too fucking small for her, and then stumbles into the kitchen in just her boxers and a t-shirt (it has a kitty with a grenade on it; one of the best things that Quinn’s ever bought for her).

Rachel and Chastity are having breakfast together.

“Oh,” she says.

“Hey,” Chastity says, easily. She’s in Santana’s robe, having tea of some kind (which is weird, because neither she nor Rachel drink tea, but okay) and Rachel’s making some toast or something. “Sleep well?”

“Um,” Santana says, because that’s a vaguely more appropriate reaction than “Yeah, you knocked me out pretty good” with Rachel sitting right there.

“Puck and Sam went to the gym,” Rachel tells her, with a faint smile.

“Weirdos,” Santana says, scratching at her back and staring at Rachel. “So what--am I not getting any breakfast?”

“You _live_ here,” Rachel points out.

“So?”

That shit really shouldn’t work, but it does, because Rachel rolls her eyes and gets up to pour her a cup.

“Thanks, honey,” Santana says, before sitting down next to Chastity, and at least she knows her name--that’s always a good start. “What are you up to today?”

Chastity shrugs. “Cello lessons.”

“On a Sunday?” Santana asks.

“On an every day,” Chastity responds, and like, man, Chastity is a retarded name but she’s _cute_ and sort of gets away with it. “It’s sort of my whole life.”

“Why the cello?”

Chastity shrugs and smiles. “I’m Asian. One instrument, one sport, a lot of math and science, and hopefully a career--”

“--as a doctor or a lawyer,” Santana says, with a laugh. “Yeah, I’ve heard that life plan before.”

“Anyway. I turned out to be _very_ good at the cello, and well, my parents are fine with it. I mean, more so since I got scholarships to go to Juilliard.”

“Oh,” Rachel says, in the world’s reediest voice. “You go to Juilliard? That’s amazing.”

It is way too fucking early to navigate this minefield without a lot more alcohol, and so Santana decides to intervene in possibly the world’s most appealing and obvious way ever: “I’m going to go shower. You wanna come, deal with the hard to reach places for me?”

Rachel’s face does this _oh my God, FINN_ thing that it hasn’t in like, years. It’s really fucking funny, and Santana struggles to ignore it.

Then Chastity finishes her tea and says, “I’m going to let that comment slide, but I could do with a shower myself, so.... Nice to meet you, Rachel.”

Santana manages to contain her laughter until they’re _in_ the bathroom and then glances at Chastity. “You know, the point of tormenting her is _tormenting_ her.”

“She’s nice,” Chastity says, before slipping out of Santana’s robe and reaching for Santana’s tank top. “And I’m pretty much done talking about her now.”

“Yeah, okay,” Santana says, because who the fuck would argue with that?

*

She and Puck head out to check out girls in the park later that day, and he swings an arm around her shoulder and says, “Quinn really misses you and shit. She has new friends, obviously, and like, this bunch of ridiculous girls who hang on her every fucking word like she’s Jesus, but nobody who really gives her shit and pushes her.”

“She has you,” Santana points out.

“Yeah,” Puck says, after a moment. “And I mean, we’re good friends, but she doesn’t open up to me the way she does to you. So like--don’t leave her hanging, just because you’re in New York now and you and Rachel are trying to win some sort of roommate comedy award or whatever.”

“Okay, I’m not _replacing_ her,” Santana complains. “Me and Rachel--that’s completely different.”

Puck looks at her questioningly for a moment and then says, “Whatever. All I’m saying--”

“Puck, fuck off. I talk to her almost every day and we’re still planning to have her transfer, okay?” They saunter onwards for a few more minutes until Santana says, “God, not getting laid has made you so fucking soft.”

Puck has the decency to look a little ashamed of himself when he says, “Yeah, about that...”

Santana fights that obvious urge to knee him in the groin. “You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, well,” Puck says, and then shrugs. “I tried, you know? And so did she.”

“So how about you just _tell her_ you’d rather be her friend. She’ll be fine, you pussy,” Santana says, elbowing him in the side just because.

“I really--oh, what the fuck ever. Can we not be such chicks? Seriously, you’re making my balls detach,” Puck complains, before nodding towards the lake with a grin. “There, the brunette in the skirt; she’d get it.”

“She looks like Rachel,” Santana says, frowning. “With, like, much better taste in clothing, but--”

“Like I said: she’d get it,” Puck says, again.

“Yeah,” Santana agrees, after a moment, because she’s always been a sucker for a good short skirt.

*

So, in the weeks leading up to Christmas, she sees Chastity a few more times.

“I don’t really do exclusive,” Chastity says, on their third get-together that is sort of but not really a date. “I’ll be honest, I like you a lot, but I already have one serious relationship in my life and it’s with that instrument. I don’t really have the time or the energy to--”

“Hey, it’s cool,” Santana says, because it is. She can do casual. It’s pretty much her one and only forte when it comes to....

Well, this _isn’t_ a relationship, so whatever.

“... that said, nothing turns me on like knowing someone I’m going to fuck later that night is watching me play, so--do you and Rachel maybe want to attend the recital we’re doing next weekend?”

There are so many things right with that sentence that Santana just kind of laughs and says, “I fucking hate classical music.”

“I’ll find a way to make you like it, don’t worry,” Chastity says, with a small smile.

Santana’s still not sure about feelings or eye contact, but repeat exposure to the same girl? Yeah, that’s pretty much the ticket to a good sex life.

*

They’re getting ready for the recital--it’s part of the Christmas season, which clearly takes place before Christmas because New York floods with tourists at that time, and anyone studying there goes back to wherever home is--when Rachel says, “I’m sorry. About what I told you about Sam, a few weeks ago. You were right, it wasn’t appropriate.”

“Are you sorry, or are you going to stop dicking him around?” Santana asks.

Their bathroom is tiny, and they have to share the mirror, and when Rachel fucks around with her eyeliner for a few seconds too long, Santana sighs and takes it from her.

“It’s not... I’m not...” Rachel starts to say, flinching when the pencil nears her eye. “I’m not really loving this whole eye gouging vibe that you’re establishing here, by the way.”

“Rachel--” Santana says, a little warningly.

“I love Sam. But sometimes,” she says, slowly, as the pencil traces around her eyes. They lock eyes (well, duh, Santana _has_ to look at hers), and then Rachel finishes in a sigh, “Sometimes I just wonder if there isn’t something _more_.”

“More like what?” Santana asks, softly. It still feels like she’s yelling, because they’re that close together.

“Just... _more_ ,” Rachel repeats.

The pencil slips, and Santana curses before reaching for a remover pad and brushing it past Rachel’s eyes.

“You know, honestly, if there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past few years,” Santana finally says, when she’s done and Rachel’s closing her eyes. “It’s that you need to appreciate what you have, because it pretty much is guaranteed to slip through your fucking fingers when you least expect it.”

There is just no accounting for that slightly wounded look on Rachel’s face when she opens her eyes again. “Yeah,” she says, before turning back towards the mirror. “Thanks.”

“Whatever,” Santana says, sharpening the eyeliner for a moment before leaning forward and using it herself. “It’s just the fucking truth.”

*

The thing about cellists: really strong fingers. _Really_ fucking strong fingers.

She still hates classical music like burning (and seriously, one of the best things about living with Rachel is that she unexpectedly does _not_ spend all of her time listening to Broadway classics, but instead has this weird hankering for the Black Eyed Peas when she’s cooking dinner, sort of dumbly dancing around the kitchen with spatulas and shit) but something about watching Chastity’s hand move up and down those strings--

Man, Quinn’s thing for guitar players suddenly got a lot less lame, and Santana watches with rapt attention for what are probably completely the wrong reasons.

“She’s very good,” Rachel mumbles.

“Well, duh, she’s at Juilliard,” Santana says, like she has _any_ idea whether or not Chastity is good.

“Are you two dating now?” Rachel asks.

“No,” Santana says, because--they are, but they aren’t.

“Why not?” Rachel asks.

Someone behind them shushes them loudly; Rachel rolls her eyes and looks over her shoulder with a glare. Santana bites her lip to not start laughing.

“Rach--not everyone wants _more_ ,” she finally says, because that just about covers it.

Rachel looks at her in a very evaluative and kind of probing way. “Yeah--but _you_ do.”

“ _Not_ right now,” Santana says, forcefully.

They don’t say anything else to each other for the remainder of the concert, and then Santana lingers in the lobby while Chastity tries to carry out an instrument that’s like eight times the size of her; it’s hilarious, more so when Santana offers to carry it and Chastity stares at her like she’s fucking crazy.

“Okay, okay,” Santana says, holding up her hands and laughing.

“Let’s go to mine,” Chastity says, still clinging to the cello. “I’m close.”

That turns out to be the truth in more than one ways.

(And _Jesus_ , cello players have really strong fingers; they find places inside of her that she honestly has more or less forgotten were there, and her head snaps back like a whip when she finally comes.)

 _More_ is overrated, she thinks, with Chastity half-draped over her lower half and the streetlight down the street filtering over their bodies.

*

She feels fucking fantastic, which is why what happens next is so incredibly screwed up.

She gets home, and Sam is sitting on the couch holding his head in his hands, while Rachel is leaning against the kitchen counter and doing the dishes with her shoulders shaking.

The thing about New York apartments is that the walls are thin and the rooms are small, so there is no way for her to not get every single highlight of … this. (And she’s not stupid. She knows what this looks like.)

“Hey,” she says, carefully, because it’s not like she can just tiptoe to her room and pretend that there’s nobody home.

Sam looks at her with an incredibly bitter and devastated expression on his face, and Santana deflates completely.

Rachel doesn’t say anything.

Santana heads to her room, rummages around her nightstand, and comes back with a bottle of tequila that really, she’d been saving for Quinn and Christmas, but sometimes, the best laid plans just don’t work out the way they’re supposed to.

“C’mon,” she says to Sam, putting a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll take you to the docks.”

“I’m...” Sam starts to say, but then she presents the bottle of tequila, and he just sighs and says, “Yeah. Okay.”

He heads to the door, and Santana looks at Rachel for a long moment.

She wishes she had something to say, but the only words that come to mind are _you’re a fucking idiot_ , and she’s pretty sure that those aren’t the words that Rachel needs to hear right now.

Besides: those who do the breaking don’t get the rights to the crying or the drinking. Not right away, anyway.

*

Sam actually breaks down when they’re on a bench with a carefully paper-bagged bottle, because, duh, they’re drinking in public _and_ they’re minors, but Santana figures that if she’s going to get a record for something, it might as well be for a good cause.

“What do I keep doing wrong?” he finally asks, when Santana’s forced some liquor into him and he’s stopped crying like a girl. “I mean, seriously. First Quinn, and then _you_ \--”

“Sam--look, I can’t speak for Quinn or Rachel, but I’m _gay_. There’s nothing you could’ve done,” she says.

“I just--she said she loved me. And then she dumped me anyway,” Sam says, rubbing at his face.

Santana sneaks a sip of tequila and winces when the sting makes her eyes water. “It means that she’s in a really fucking weird place right now, and it’s probably not about you.”

It’s hardly a satisfying answer, but Sam reaches for the bottle, drinks a few sips, and then sighs. “I was going over to hers for Christmas. What the hell am I supposed to do now?”

“Your uncle?”

Sam shakes his head. “Out of the country. He’s in Africa, on a safari.”

“Well, fuck, come to mine, then,” she offers, because the Lopez household is turning into the wayward house of parent-less Lima teens anyway.

“I don’t really feel like spending my break around the _other_ girl who broke my heart in the last few years,” Sam says. It’s followed by a wry laugh. “God. I sound like a trailer for a rom com. _Will he ever be lucky in love_?”

“Hey,” Santana says, putting a hand on his leg until he looks at her. “Give her a chance. She _was_ a mess, but she’s not so much anymore now, okay?”

They sit silently for a moment, and then Sam says, “If my life really was some dumb romantic comedy with an unexpected but totally obvious ending, I’d probably end up with _you_.”

“I think you’re confusing romantic comedy with slasher flick,” Santana amends, with a small smile.

“Whatever. You’re pretty bad-ass. You’d probably be good with off-the-cuff weaponry and I’m pretty sure together we’d avoid all the usual dumb schlock mistakes,” Sam says.

“Like running upstairs, which, come on.”

“ _Seriously_. Who does that?” Sam agrees.

He manages a small smile, and she leans into his side and watches a flock of seagulls descend on the Brooklyn docks.

*

She waits for Sam to sober up and make his way back to his car, when she’s sure he’ll make the trip back to Philly without any sort of intentional or otherwise lethal accident, and then trudges back home--three transfers and a lot of really really badly smelling people who bump into her.

Rachel’s sitting in the dark, staring intently at the television, and Santana’s anger with her just sort of fucking evaporates.

“You dumb fucking drama queen,” she says, softly, before sinking down onto the couch next to Rachel.

It cracks through Rachel’s composure completely, and Santana lets Rachel cry herself to sleep on her lap; her tears are striking in the blue light of the infomercial channel, currently telling them that a new blender will solve all their problems.

If only it was that easy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to B, R and A (I may just start calling you all the Queerios at this point) for all encouragement and suggestions/improvements. This part is mostly set outside of New York, and will consequently only offend those of you who live in Lima, Ohio. (I would guess the show offends you enough in that case, though.)

3.

So.

New York is cold in December, but also incredibly pretty. Some part of Santana wishes they could stay for Christmas, but that part also wishes Quinn (and hell, maybe even Puck) lived closer, and anyway, Rachel seriously needs her family.

(It probably shouldn’t have been surprising that dumping Sam turned _Rachel_ into a pyjama-wearing headcase for close to a week, but Santana still feels woefully unprepared because the bitch doesn’t even eat dairy ice cream by the bucket, like normal people.

New York has everything, but like, 3am soy based vanilla “with some sort of nut, if they have it”? She’s fucking legendary for getting that delivery made, basically.)

It’s their last day, and Rachel has managed the gigantic leap into leggings as opposed to gym shorts, which probably is a sign that Santana can also sit down next to her and say, “If you’re this upset about breaking up with Megamouth, what the hell did you do it for?”

There’s some black and white movie marathon on AMC and Rachel is watching it with tired, wet eyes, hands knitted into a blanket, but other than that she looks pretty much back to normal. (Well, a more attractive version of normal, anyway, now that her clothing mostly comes from this century.)

“It just wasn’t working,” she finally says, eyes steadfast glued to the television.

Santana stretches out and cracks her neck--a Barnard regular, what from all that staring at books--and then says, “I’ve seen not working. Check every relationship Quinn has ever been in; check you and Hudson. You and Samwise, though--”

“Santana, if you spend most of your time in a relationship with someone wondering what your life would be like if you … made different choices, it’s just not going to work.”

Santana glances over, but Rachel doesn’t look particularly upset about the sharpness in her voice. “So this is for real about Philly and how you don’t want to live there?”

The look Rachel gives her in response shuts her up.

“Rach, like, I don’t know. If you were Quinn, you’d be telling me all the shit that was wrong with him right now and I’d be holding your hand uselessly and then we’d go out and get fat or something. I don’t know what to do _for you_.”

“You’ve been fine,” Rachel says, in a smaller voice, before lowering her eyes to her hands for just a second. “Perfect, actually. I mostly just wanted to be left alone, but I knew you’d be there if I wanted to talk, so--”

“Okay,” Santana says, awkwardly. “So you’ll be okay in Lima?”

Rachel sighs and says, “Yeah.”

“Um, we probably won’t see each other a lot over break, now that that guy whose heart you crushed is going to be sleeping in my guest bedroom.”

Rachel’s fingers flex in the blanket. “My dads will insist you come by at least once.”

“Yeah, so they can yell at me about how drunk you were that weekend Puck showed up, I’m sure.”

Rachel finally manages a small smile. “Contrary to popular belief, my parents aren’t actually _psychic_.”

“Yeah, well,” Santana says, because they totally _are_ (Black B in particular) and anyway, it’s not like she’s Rachel’s boyfriend and they’re going to meet her with a shotgun in the driveway just because the Rachel she’s bringing back is a little less bright than the Rachel they dropped off.

“I’ll miss you, either way,” Rachel finally says, before getting up and heading into the kitchen.

“Don’t be lame; it’s unattractive,” Santana says. She can’t really bring herself to sound like she means it, though.

*

Their flight gets in at a totally ridiculous time (Rachel’s doing, mostly--she took to ordering flights home like the average housewife does to a spring sale at Macy’s, complete with maniacal re-checking of Expedia deals) and only Berry White was free to come get them.

OSU finishes later today (or maybe just the cheerleading there, Quinn wasn’t overly specific) and Santana’s parents are still at some retreat in Minnesota. Dermatology or skin care or something.

“I can drop you off, or you can stay with us until your parents come back,” Berry White offers, on the drive back.

Santana shrugs, because, whatever. It’s only a few days and she’s spent much more time than that on her own, though not lately, what with the size of their apartment. Maybe it’ll be nice.

“I should probably go drop off my stuff first,” she says, and Rachel says, “Well, come by after that, nobody should be alone over the holidays.”

“I won’t be?” Santana asks.

Rachel goes back to staring out the window, and Berry White meets Santana’s eyes in the rear view with a raised eyebrow.

“Depressed,” she mouths at him, and then makes a little heart with her hands before exploding it.

“Ah,” he says, out loud, earning a sharp look from Rachel.

Berry White’s never quite been her man the way that Black Berry always has been, but when he tries to hide a grin, Santana finally figures out why he’s not so secretly Rachel’s favorite.

*

Her parents’ house is fucking ginormous.

Seriously, the only good thing about it is that it’s not _Quinn’s_ parental home, which also feels like it’s a resting place for really, really fucking scary old people who spend their entire lives in churches. But it still feels completely devoid of...

It’s been like three minutes and she already misses the apartment, with its crappily painted walls--Rachel’s perfectionism had been quickly shattered by Santana’s far greater interest in pissing Rachel off by splattering paint everywhere--and the fruit bowl on the breakfast extension is always full of weird organic and foreign things that Rachel scores at random greengrocers around the city.

Starfruit smells like ass, for what it’s worth, but also kind of like _home_ , and the minute her bags drop to the floor in the foyer, she’s already heading for the door again.

“Just making sure you don’t off yourself because you’re sad about Luke Skywalker, you know I can’t make rent on my own,” she says, when Rachel raises her eyebrows as she settles back into the car.

“I don’t know why girls like you,” Rachel murmurs.

Berry White laughs, probably at both of them.

*

Rachel’s house has thrown up Christmas.

Or maybe Chrismukkah, as there’s also a prominent menorah on the coffee table _and_ the mantle, but either way.

“Welcome back, girls,” Black Berry says, wearing a chef _hat_ with his chef apron, and Rachel settles into his side for a hug. He looks at Santana with a half-smirk for a moment, who rolls her eyes and steps into his other side. “Glad to see you’re both clearly still eating, and in incredibly good moods to boot.”

“I just finished my finals,” Santana complains. “And Rachel’s depressed because she dumped Sam.”

That earns her slap to the ribs (which, whatever, Rachel punches like a cross between a gay man and a three year old girl) and a pat on the head.

“Why don’t you tell us both all about that over lunch. I roasted a fake chicken in honor of your return, honey.”

“Fake chicken’s my favorite,” Rachel mumbles, with a sigh.

They all start laughing a moment second later, which is typical; that’s just the kind of effect this house has on people.

*

Lunch devolves into sort of an impromptu party when Puck calls to ask where they are, and then Rachel (or someone) calls Brittany and gets her and Artie to come over as well.

It’s weird, seeing Britt again, but in a very good way. Somewhere in Santana there is this resounding and overwhelming thought of _you are no longer the last person I slept with_ , and maybe that’s a stupid reason to finally feel some of that tension let go, but they have a somewhat normal conversation about Brittany paying bills or something...

… okay, maybe somewhat _normal_ isn’t the word, but it’s comfortable, and the relief on Brittany’s face is palpable.

If she could, Santana would probably apologize for not moving on sooner--as it is, she just about manages to say something positive about Britt’s dancing, but whatever. They’ve known each other for over ten years at this point. Brittany _knows_ what she means.

Then she spots Quinn, who somehow has managed to cut her hair some ludicrously half-lesbian length, and the laughter that bubbles up in her chest is completely unexpected. “Jesus Christ, I can’t even leave you alone for three months. What is with your fucking _hair?_ ”

“Oh my God, don’t even,” Quinn says, looking mortified, before pulling her lame little beanie further over her ears. Not that that’s stopping that animal on her head from peeking out all over the place.

“Seriously though, I’m going to call it a new-age mullet, because I don’t know where else to take it,” Santana says, later that day, when she and Quinn are doing the dishes in Rachel’s kitchen and nearly everyone else has left already.

Quinn’s still hellaciously paranoid about Rachel’s parents flipping their shit about her awful behavior, but whatever, Rachel is so clearly over their feud of the past that her dads aren’t going to bother.

“This is _why_ you don’t take the word of a girl from Tennessee about where to get your hair cut in a new city,” she says, with a sigh.

“I could’ve done a better job than that,” Santana agrees, before flicking some suds at Quinn’s face. “You’re lucky you’re so fucking naturally attractive; your bone structure can _almost_ handle this, I guess.”

Quinn snorts. “Thanks, you whore.”

“Whatever, you’ve missed me,” Santana says, rinsing off the last plate.

Quinn smiles when it’s in the drying rack, and then pulls her into a seriously tight hug. “I’m not even all that upset about it, but Puck and I … well, that’s done, I guess, and I’ve been saving all my ice cream for you.”

She sort of sing-songs the last bit, and Santana looks up when Rachel says, “I’m glad to see you’re keeping up your vocal exercises, Quinn; that was great, not at all sharp.”

“Is she being sarcastic?” Quinn asks, before turning around and shooting a look at Rachel. “Are you messing with me?”

“Rachel doesn’t know how to do insincerity; she’s not wired that way,” Santana says, and then heads to the refrigerator, opening up the freezer compartment and getting on her toes to look inside. “Rach, your dads have your fave--and there’s some rocky road here from when I was last over, so, if you two think you can stop from killing each other, I think we can kill two birds with one stone.”

Quinn looks actively surprised for a moment, and then turns to Rachel again. “Wait, you and Sam--”

“Yeah,” Rachel sighs, before smiling in a sort of half-hearted way. “I guess that means we’re three for three in ex-boyfriends now, right?”

A conflicted look passes over Quinn’s face, and then she says, not without irony, “Maybe the universe is trying to tell us we should just date each other.”

In a different life--or a different year--Rachel would’ve gotten her ass handed to her for the peal of laughter that she lets out, before covering her mouth.

“Yeah, I’m torn between that and heaving,” Quinn agrees.

*

Quinn’s never seen Rachel’s room, for obvious reasons, and looks pleasantly surprised that it isn’t just a plethora of Broadway shit and self-portraits spread out everywhere. Granted, most of Rachel’s personal effects have made the trek to the city, but even so. It’s a semi-normal room, for a completely abnormal girl.

“I think I’ve underestimated you for a long time now,” Quinn finally says, gingerly settling on the edge of the bed.

“It goes both ways,” Rachel says, easily. “I honestly thought you were both soulless and a disgrace to womankind for most of high school, but I’ve been reading a lot about feminism lately, and--”

“Why?” Santana asks, raising her eyebrows.

“Because we own a lot of books about it,” Rachel says, easily.

Quinn looks amused. “We?”

“She means me, but the bookcase is shared, obviously,” Santana says, glaring at her.

“Either way, Quinn, I accept that you have had many things to overcome on your path to becoming an empowered woman, so--”

“Rachel, shut up,” Santana says, because Quinn _clearly_ can’t tell that Rachel is kidding, and her face is quickly going from ‘tolerating the dwarf’ to ‘contemplating how to kill the dwarf’. “She’s fucking with you, Q.”

Quinn takes that in stride. “Amazing. It has a sense of humor about something.”

And then, Quinn and Rachel sort of _grin_ at each other from opposite sides of the bed, and the part of Santana that isn’t tickled pink about finally sorting out her two best friends being like, _civil_ with each other in a serious way is just a little bit terrified.

“Okay, seriously, ladies, can we just talk about boys or whatever it is you heteros need to do to stop all this obvious sexual tension?” she finally says, planting herself between them.

Rachel laughs. “I’m sure in your fantasies, this is the opposite of what having two girls in your bed would be like.”

Quinn squeezes her eyes shut. “I hate _both_ of you for this visual.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t,” Rachel says, easily, before eating some more ice cream. “Her not-girlfriend is really attractive.”

“There’s a not-girlfriend?” Quinn asks. It’s casual, but with a slight undertone of hurt at hearing about this from _Rachel_ , and Santana directs a sharp look at Rachel, who just shrugs.

“Not _really_. Rachel thinks that just because I’ve fucked her more than once we’re like, engaged, or something,” Santana says.

“Her name is Chastity. She’s an extremely capable cello player, and an above-average lover, if the sounds coming from Santana’s room are anything to go by,” Rachel says.

“You are so fucking dead to me, dwarf,” Santana says, stealing Rachel’s ice cream and moving over to Quinn’s side of the bed. “And you--what kind of best friend are you, encouraging this shit?”

“The kind that’s going to have coffee with Rachel sometime this week, because _you_ ,” Quinn says, with a sharp jab in Santana’s side, “are obviously not telling me half of what you’re doing in New York.”

“Or who,” Rachel adds, with a smile.

Santana has no idea why the hell she ever thought it would be _good_ if these two managed to bury the hatchet.

*

Of course, because both Quinn and Rachel are just giant walking ovaries most of the time, the conversation quickly does turn to Puck and Sam, and when Rachel repeats again that she just wasn’t sure that there wasn’t more out there for her, Quinn immediately says, “Ah, say no more. That’s really rough.”

Santana’s fluent in English, Spanish, moral warfare and revenge, but she doesn’t speak one fucking word of relationship, apparently.

Then again, she’s done just about everything she could to make sure she didn’t accidentally end up in one for most of her life, so.

“Puck and I are better friends,” Quinn says, with a shrug, which completely negates the amount of ice cream she’s consumed. “We have fantastic chemistry, and I do love him, in a weird way, but I just can’t see us as a family, you know? We had that window, but we want different things. Some part of me is just waiting for the moment when he drops out, loads his guitar in the back of his truck, and drives cross-country to go and play backup for Mercedes in some blues club in LA.”

“Hmm,” Rachel says, like she’s picturing it; and like it’s _attractive_.

“Puck won’t fuck up his future like that,” Santana says, because it’s true. “It might be the dream, but with his sister and everything; like shit. His worst nightmare is becoming his dad.”

“So he’ll settle for a life he doesn’t want instead,” Quinn says, flipping onto her side and hugging one of Rachel’s many pillows. “I’m sorry if it makes _me_ the bitch in this situation, but I want no part of that.”

“Nor should you,” Rachel says. “It would never work.”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I feel bad for Sam. You two _both_ really fucked him over,” Santana sighs, and rubs at her eyes. “Oh, my God, this much girl talk has clearly addled my otherwise superior and completely disinterested mind.”

“Look,” Rachel says, and then sits up to look at her. “I know you don’t understand it, because we were _happy_ , but …”

“Isn’t that the point? Of being together?” Santana repeats, raising her eyebrows.

“Yes. But the point is also to … “ Rachel clearly struggles to find the right words. “It’s to be so _sure_ that ... you don’t wonder.”

“Nobody’s sure of fucking everything all the time.”

“Yeah, but ideally, you’d at least be sure that there isn’t someone else who would be better for you out there,” Quinn says, locking eyes with Rachel for a second, and then smiling wryly. “Granted, when _I_ was with Sam, I thought Finn was my ticket. It’s more about the feeling than it is about actually wanting to be with someone else.”

Santana processes this--too much ice cream, total brain freeze--and then scrutinizes Rachel’s face. “How is there someone else? You live and breathe work, those guys you have classes with are all queer as a three dollar bill, and … what aren’t you telling me?”

Rachel’s cheeks color, and she says, “It’s not _someone_. I mean, there isn’t someone. There’s just... you know, the idea of someone else. The possibility that maybe, there’s something more than just that ‘best friends’ chemistry that I had with Sam.”

“Oh, God, is this going to turn into some Broadway monologue about how you want to feel like your entire body is on fire when your leading man walks into the room?” Santana groans, making a face.

Rachel stares at her for another few seconds and then reaches for the empty ice cream containers. “For what it’s worth, you might think that that’s a complete myth, but I _know_ it’s out there. I’ve felt it before, and I am not going to stay with someone I don’t feel it with just because--well, _whatever_.”

She heads out the room a moment later, and Santana rolls her eyes. “She’s such a fucking drama queen.”

Quinn stares at the door pensively. “No, I don’t think so. In a weird way, I know exactly what she means.”

“Well, while you two are both sitting around waiting to be lit on fire by someone, I’m having sex with the world’s most flexible cellist. I’d say I’m winning.”

The look Quinn gives her is almost pitying. “I know you want to be in denial about this for the rest of your life, but somewhere inside of you there lives a die-hard monogamist who honestly just wants to hold doors open for that one perfect girl for the rest of her life.”

“That’s just about the fucking _opposite_ of what I want to do,” Santana says, scrunching up her nose in disgust. “You’re making me sound like some sort of.. just, _ew_.”

Quinn smiles and says, “You know what the weirdest thing about living in Columbus is?”

“Other than _everything_?”

“It’s thatsuddenly, you’re no longer hovering over my shoulder, ready to beat up anyone who so much as looks at me in the wrong way, carrying my books everywhere, insisting on paying for dinner a good seventy percent of the time.”

“Um, I’m your wealthy-and-awesome _best friend_ ,” Santana points out. “You’re making it sound a lot gayer than it is.”

“Am I really? Let’s be honest, you’re my best friend, but you’re also the reason I’ve not missed being in a real relationship for however long it’s been now, because you’re a better boyfriend than any of the guys I’ve dated. _Ever_. So you’re completely kidding yourself if you think that a serious relationship, where you can direct all of that intense attention at just one person, isn’t something you _want_ , Santana.”

Santana scoffs. “What is this, pop psychology from a marketing major?”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Friendly advice from someone who wants you to be _happy_ , you moron.”

“I _am_ happy.”

Quinn gives her a look that shuts her right back up. “It is unbelievable that someone so perceptive about other people’s issues is so blind to her own.”

“Yeah, and it’s more unbelievable to _me_ that your virgin ass is lecturing _me_ about how to go about making _connections_ with people. Sweetheart, I connect in ways that your puny little innocent brain can’t even compute.”

“Santana--”

“Seriously--just fuck off, okay? You don’t know what the city’s like, and you don’t know what my _life_ there is like, so why don’t you just back the fuck off me and believe me when I say that I’m fucking _fine_?”

Quinn stares at her disapprovingly for a moment and then says, “Okay, then.”

“Whatever,” Santana says, with a little bite, because _she’s_ not the one who just fucked up another relationship in this room. Hell, she’s the _only_ one who hasn’t, and Quinn can just take her pious know-it-fucking-all attitude to a different floor of Rachel’s house if it’s all she has to offer.

*

Sam’s already at the house when they finally leave Rachel’s later that night, sitting on the hood of his car and playing some Nintendo 3Ds game or something.

“If that’s Pokemon I am fucking mocking you forever,” Santana says.

“Yes, please, make fun of me. That’ll make me feel better,” Sam sighs, and then glances at Quinn. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Quinn also says, awkwardly pulling that stupid hat further over her ears again.

“I like your hair. You look like an anime character,” Sam says, with a small smile.

“Yeah, that wasn’t really what I was going for,” Quinn says, with a small wince. “Sorry about Rachel.”

“Yeah, me too,” Sam says, slamming his handheld shut and reaching for his bag on the floor. “At least she didn’t break into my locker to break my heart, though, so... I don’t know. Small favors, right?”

Santana almost applauds him, because absolutely _nobody_ has managed to dismantle Quinn that completely with just a single sentence. Of course, he’s also being an _ass_ by taking out his Rachel angst on a girl he hasn’t dated in almost two years now, and so she glares at him.

“Be nice.”

Sam scuffs his shoe and then sheepishly turns to Quinn. “Sorry, it’s--that was uncalled for. It’s not about you.”

“It’s okay,” Quinn says. “I mean, I’ve had it coming for a long time, I guess.”

That just about sets the incredibly awkward tone for the rest of the evening, which is capped only by Quinn’s muted look of shock when they turn in for the night.

“Are you picturing sex? Is it breaking your brain?” Santana asks.

“No,” Quinn just says, before rolling onto her side.

It’s only been three months, but already there’s this nagging feeling that all of her friendships from back home are changing around her; things with Brittany are suddenly smoother than things with Quinn, and things with Rachel are nothing like _either_ of those situations, so...

“I’m sorry about Puck,” she finally says. “I was hoping you two would sort your shit out.”

“We _have_ ,” Quinn says. “Just not the way we thought we would.”

“How’s Beth?”

“Growing fast,” Quinn says, and then flops over onto her back and toys with that cross around her neck for a moment. “I’m... I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and... I’m going to have other kids, you know?”

“Hopefully not anytime soon,” Santana says, dryly.

“No, but... someday. Do you have any idea how long it’s been since that’s not sounded like the end of my life? And, even though it should probably be easier for me to picture my future children with Puck since I know exactly what they’ll look like--”

“Yeah,” Santana says. “I mean, I get it.” And it’s weird, because she both _does_ and _doesn’t_ at the same time.

She’s never really entertained the notion of having kids with anyone, because, _gross_ \--they mostly just get in the way of a healthy sex life and while she’d be fine with having her physical genes passed on, the idea of raising something approximating herself is just, _no thank you_ \--but at the same time, there is that weird gut feeling that whatever non-kids are in her future, they wouldn’t be blonde and tall and sweetly innocent and overly gullible anyway.

At most, she can picture some little shithead mouthing off all the time, which, well.

“Sometimes I forget how young we are,” Quinn says, and then curls up next to her, throwing one arm over Santana’s chest. “It feels like we’ve been through so much already.”

“Yeah,” Santana agrees, and closes her eyes.

*

Sam and Quinn head off for some exercise early the next day, and she watches their double-blonde heads jog off in the distance before hitting up Kurt and Blaine for coffee--it’s weird to be nostalgic for a drink she still literally lives off of, but no coffee she’s had in New York has managed to really live up to the Lima Bean.

They both hug her tightly and Kurt gives her an approving little nod at her outfit, which, _damn_ right. They talk for a little while about Providence--very gay, nobody’s run into Emma Watson as of yet--and Kurt’s entry into a design contest and Blaine’s disappointment that the Brown choir isn’t anywhere as sophisticated in organization as the Warblers were, and then Kurt gives Santana a probing look.

“And how are you and Rachel?”

“I’m good,” she says, honestly. “I mean, getting used to the city, still, but everyone tells me that it takes like a year to finally feel like you’re not constantly going to get lost.”

“And Rachel?” Blaine asks, finishing his regular drip and feeling around his pocket for more change. (The only thing they all seem to have in common these days is that their coffee intake has tripled since high school.)

“Well, you know,” Santana says, because it’s not really her place to talk about it, and she’s also not really sure.

“She took the break-up roughly,” Kurt says, sending his spoon in a spin around his mug. “I mean, Lord knows it’s hard enough to get Rachel to talk in coherent, short sentences anyway, but when she called me that day...”

“She called you?” Santana asks, with a frown. “And like, actually talked about her feelings and shit?”

Kurt tilts his head. “What am I missing here?”

“Nothing, just--”

She forces herself to stop talking, because really, _so what_?

“Santana,” Kurt says, a little sharply. “For one thing, rumor has it that you’re on _Sam’s_ side in all of this.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side,” she says, glaring at him. “Just, he drove 8 hours to come and see her and she fucking dumped him in our living room. You haven’t _seen_ our living room, okay? There were just better ways to do it.”

Kurt says nothing for a long moment, and then Santana glances at Blaine.

“Rachel … seems to think that you’re angry with her, for ending things with Sam,” he says, tentatively. “Or that’s the impression I’ve gotten, anyway.”

“It’s none of my business what she did. Sure, I think she’s a _moron_ because Sam is awesome and her reasons are fucking retarded, but it’s her life. I’m just her roommate.”

Kurt’s expression changes so quickly that she can’t quite read it. “Either way; keep an eye on her, please. She’s working through a lot of things.”

“Yeah, duh,” Santana says, because she’s not about to admit at this table, with these two knowing so much more than she does (apparently) that she doesn’t have any fucking idea what he means.

*

A lot has changed since the summer, because she’s voluntarily over at Brittany’s house for dinner, and Brittany’s younger sister looks so thrilled to see her that she feels like an asshole all over again. Not that kid’s fault that they couldn’t work it out, and anyway, Britt’s family is _her_ family--it was long before Leroy and Hiram ever surfaced on the scene.

There’s a new kind of comfort between them, on opposite ends of the sofa now, watching some Lifetime movie about the British prince or whatever marrying some girl, and it’s so laughable that even Brittany rolls her eyes a few times. Still, it’s closer to _good_ than they’ve been together in ages.

“So, Rachel and Sam, huh,” Brittany finally says, when the camera very gently pans away from the future king’s impending sex life. (Probably not something they can show in detail.) “I liked them together. They were cute. I really thought they would be good, and maybe forever.”

“Yeah, me too,” Santana says, and then sighs. “Well, no, I didn’t. Rachel told me she was thinking about ending it last year already. I just hoped that she’d stop being so dumb.”

“Sometimes people can’t help being dumb,” Brittany says, a little pointedly.

Santana grudgingly smiles. “Yeah, I know.”

They’re silent for a long moment, and then Brittany says, “Is there someone new, for you?”

Santana considers an honest answer--yes, there are _several_ someones--or an even more honest answer--not really--and then finally says, “There will be, I think. Not right now, maybe, but--I think I’m mostly ready for it.”

“It better be someone really cute and really flexible. I don’t think you could be with someone ugly or stiff,” Brittany says, before eating the last of their shared box of Animal Crackers, and then laughing when Santana just rolls her eyes. “I’m kidding. You know what I think?”

“What.”

“You should date Rachel.”

Santana’s diet soda is literally two feet over on the coffee table, which doesn’t really explain why she still feels like she’s going to spit it out all over Brittany’s feet. “I’m sorry-- _what_?”

“Well, she’s cute. In a weird way, but cute. And she drives you crazy, so the sex would be good,” Brittany says, and then squints for a moment. “Also, she’s like right next door. That helps. Artie always says logistics are the most important part of... something. Right?”

“No, not right,” Santana asks, not really liking the tone of her voice.

“Well, all I mean is, if she’s right there, it’ll be easier to do it all the time, obviously.”

A whole litany of images assault her mind at once, and she actually covers her eyes for a second before kicking Brittany in the side. “What is wrong with you?”

“Santana, it’s _always_ better with your best friends. Haven’t you learned anything by now?” Brittany asks, sounding deadly serious. “Things that are good are feelings, and eye contact, and being with someone that you know also likes the green M &Ms better than all the other ones. That’s the stuff that matters.”

Santana just stares back at the television, where the prince and his girlfriend are having a fight about something English she doesn’t understand. Unfortunately, to make sure this doesn’t leave the room (to make its way back to _Quinn_ , Jesus), she’s going to have to talk sense into Brittany.

Sense.

Into _Brittany_.

“First of all, Rachel is straight,” is her first valiant attempt.

“She doesn’t _kiss_ like she’s straight,” Brittany says. “She’s _really_ good, actually. And I don’t have feelings. Well, I mean, I do, but not for her.”

“ _Second_ of all, she’s also been dating one of my bros for like, an age.”

Brittany gives her a little look. “Okay, I know you’re confused about all of this because you definitely gave _me_ some wrong information, but sex with someone who isn’t dating someone else is _definitely_ not cheating.”

“Okay, okay,” Santana says, because that’s a headache she definitely doesn’t want right now, and she doesn’t need to keep feeling guilty about two years ago, for God’s sake. “Fine. Third of all, she’s crazy and I verbally abused her for the better part of three years.”

“And fourth of all, you don’t think she’s hot?” Brittany asks.

“Yeah. That too,” Santana agrees.

“Okay, well, it was just an idea. You can date someone else, if you want,” Brittany says, graciously.

On screen, the prince proposes.

“Want to get really drunk?” Santana asks, because drunk Brittany is a Brittany who doesn’t talk about every single thing that comes to her mind, and _no talking_ sounds like the best possible thing in the world right now.

*

Hours later, she stumbles back into the house with a necktie around her unbuttoned shirt, and falls into the guest bed.

A blond head lifts up.

“Sorry, Q, wrong room but I’m not moving,” she mumbles.

She hears a low chuckle and an, “Okay then, Princess Peach”, before a blanket is tucked around her shoulders.

*

She wakes up with blond hair in her mouth for the first time in a really long time, and when she blinks her eyes open she actually screams.

Sam fights a smile, halfway successfully, and then says, “Don’t worry, you’re fully clothed and I’m not into doing it with lesbians, unless lesbian is a codeword for hot girl who would do it with me _and_ another girl.”

“ _Everyone_ is into sleeping with lesbians,” Santana corrects him, when her heart’s done beating its way out of her chest.

“How drunk were _you_ last night? And... do you often crawl into Quinn’s bed in the middle of the night?”

She laughs. “Look at you, getting your Puckerman on.”

“Hey, a guy can ask totally reasonable questions about two of the hottest girls he’s ever dated,” Sam says, sitting up a little bit more and reaching down to the floor for a t-shirt.

“Very, and yes, frequently,” Santana says, stretching tiredly. “Though really, you should know better than to think there’s any fun facts attached to me being in Quinn’s bed.”

“If you’re going to make fun of my life choices, at least close the door, assholes,” Quinn calls out from across the hallway.

Sam blushes and says, “I have nothing but respect for your life choices!”

“Yeah, unless they’re blue-ing up your nads, anyway,” Santana agrees, ducking when he shoves at her. Of course, she ducks _off_ the bed, and lands in a heap on the floor.

“You’re a mess,” Sam informs her, before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed and heading out into the hallway. “Really, Quinn, no hard feelings.”

“If I was Santana, I’d make a really inappropriate joke right now, so I guess you’re lucky I’m not,” Quinn says, before peeking her head around the door. “Do you want me to bring up some coffee, you lush?”

“Yes, please,” Santana says, with a groan.

She stays on the floor, because it’s cool, and there’s only a few more days for her to take advantage of Quinn’s willingness to housewife for her anyway.

*

She spends Christmas at her own house, without any add-ons that aren’t Quinn and Sam, and her mother falls deeply in love with the idea of Sam as a son-in-law in the span of about twenty minutes--he helps her serve some of the dishes, and asks about her job without sounding like he wants to stab himself in the eye when she tells him she’s a proctologist, and then hushes Santana for being like, “Can we please _not_ talk about anus over Christmas dinner? Baby Jesus doesn’t approve.”

It’s a very muted affair, and she can’t help but think back to a year earlier--Quinn buying her lingerie, Sam getting her devil horns--and what’s different about it now. Everyone seems more at ease, but they’re also all single and the thing that’s missing is, strangely enough, the feeling of family that comes along with... well, Rachel and her dads.

“I’m going to--whatever, I’ll be back,” she says, when they’re done loading up the dishwasher, and Sam’s trying to get the star ornament back onto the top of the tree.

Quinn gives her a look. “Where could you possibly--”

“He’s the reason she’s not here tonight, okay, I just--” Santana shrugs and says. “She’s my roommate.”

Quinn’s eyes flash for just a second. “You know, there comes a point when that’s no longer a plausible explanation for what you’re doing.”

Santana exhales slowly and then says, “If I say she’s my best friend, you’re just going to get all fucking defensive and territorial. Don’t even pretend you’re not.”

“Maybe,” Quinn says, before starting the timer on the dishwasher and slamming it shut. “But that’s _my_ problem. What’s yours?”

Santana thinks of one or two things to say in response to that, but ends up just shaking her head. “I have no idea what you’re--”

“Just go, okay? We can talk about this later. I’m sure Rachel’s having a shitty Christmas, even though she doesn’t celebrate,” Quinn says.

“Yeah. Exactly,” Santana says.

*

Black Berry looks seriously delighted to see her, and then immediately says, “Rachel and Noah have been downstairs most of the night, working on some music together.”

“Oh,” she says, because--she should’ve known. Puckerman doesn’t celebrate Christmas any more than Rachel does.

“We had Chinese; there’s some of Noah’s General Tso’s left in the kitchen if you want any. Merry Christmas,” Black Berry says, with a hand on her shoulder, and then she’s heading down the stairs.

She’s had Rachel’s Christmas present reserved for months--it’s _way_ easy to shop in New York for someone so fucking Broadway-obsessed with so little money--and even though it’s not a big deal, seeing Rachel laughing with Puck, who is smiling at his guitar and twanging a few notes here and there, somehow her hand freezes on her back pocket.

It’s just not the right time.

“Sup, homos,” she says, taking the steps two at a time.

“Shouldn’t you be off eating a ham somewhere?” Puck asks, offering his hand for a fist bump anyway.

“Done with that, thought I’d check on Zion,” she says, sitting down next to Rachel on the sofa. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Rachel says, before leaning over Puck’s lap and pulling up a small wrapped item. “I was going to give this to you when we go back, but--”

“So do it then,” Santana says, pushing the present back into Rachel’s hands. “What are you two working on?”

“Songs about Sam’s ginormous fucking mouth,” Puck says, with a grin that grows when he adds, “And that stick up Quinn’s ass.”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “We’re not actually.”

“We _should_ be,” Puck says, seriously. “It’s cathartic.”

“Bitch, you don’t even know what that word means,” Santana laughs, and then looks at Rachel again. “C’mon. It’ll be fun, and nobody will have to know.”

“Are you going to sing about how dumb Brittany is?” Rachel asks, bluntly.

“Well, why not,” Santana says, because Britt _did_ in fact manage to re-set the world record on stupid fucking suggestions just a day ago. It feels pretty appropriate.

*

Rachel’s very elegant and effervescent contribution is _Your Lips Could Suck My Face Off,_ set to the tune of that Kelly Clarkson song they sang sophomore year. By the time she’s done, semi- apologetically singing about how she needs plastic surgery just to recover her normal face shape, Santana and Puck are actually in _pain_ from laughing too much.

“Best Christian holiday celebration ever,” he says, clutching at his stomach, and wiping a few tears from his eyes.

“I feel terrible,” Rachel says, sitting down with a sigh. “That was so mean. I’m not _you_.”

“I resent that look, as this shit wasn’t even my idea,” Santana says, and swats at Puck as he gets to his feet and heads upstairs, complaining about how laughter makes him hungry.

Rachel finally smiles, and says, “Okay, so maybe it was kind of fun.”

“I’ll get you to live on the dark side yet, Berry. Just you wait,” Santana says, without thinking, and then fighting a furious blush when the connotations of her words sink in a little more.

Rachel looks just as surprised, but then says, “Sam is rubbing off on you. That was almost a Star Wars reference.”

It’s a total mood killer, because with Sam comes that sad look on Rachel’s face, and Santana sighs, before slipping a hand into her back pocket and pulling out two slightly folded tickets.

“Here. Focus on that, instead,” she says, pushing them across the floor towards the stage.

Rachel grabs them, stares at them, and then almost flies across the room to tackle her. “These are _front row seats_. How did you even--I haven’t even _talked_ about how this is--Santana!”

“Yeah, whatever, it’s cool,” she says, and then adds, just because this is _still_ a little too homo, what with Rachel almost crushing her to the floor at this point, “Take whoever you like. In fact, if you want this to be a good present for both of us, take someone other than me. I’m not really all that into musicals.”

Rachel tsks against her neck and then sits up just enough to look at her and says, “If you think for one minute I’m letting you buy me these and then not taking you with me, you clearly don’t really know me at all.”

Santana sighs and rolls her eyes. “Fine.”

Sam isn’t mentioned for the rest of the evening, after that, which may be worth her sitting through a two hour long musical theater experience about two lesbians in Nazi Germany, fighting for the right to love, or whatever.

*

Their break ends too soon. Santana’s bitter about a multitude of things, some of which are obvious--Quinn too far away again, _Sam_ too far away again, because it’s not like he’s going to be visiting them anytime soon--and others aren’t entirely clear to her.

Something about going back to New York feels a little bit like regressing, but she can’t even really say _why_. When Rachel catches her mood on the flight back, she shrugs and says it’s stress about classes, and Rachel talks obliviously about her Tisch application and how she should be hearing back about the scholarship money soon.

“I’m not crossing my fingers for that shit,” Santana says, when Rachel is chewing on her lip all anxiously for the ever-so-manieth time. “You cross your fingers when you _don’t_ think something is going to happen. You and Tisch, that’s like some sort of marriage written in the stars.”

“Yeah?” Rachel asks.

“Yeah,” Santana says, and lets Rachel clutch her arm as they take off.

It’ll never not be funny that someone without an ounce of stage fright is fucking _terrified_ of flying.

*

The apartment feels larger, now that they’re back in it, or maybe just because Rachel’s gone more often than not again; and Santana’s had people around her and now it’s mostly just her, and at best just the two of them.

Most of her college friends aren’t back yet for another week, but Rachel’s leave from her jobs hadn’t extended past Christmas, and whatever, of course they came back together.

She’s mostly just bee whittling away days on the television, watching everything except the _Veronica Mars_ boxset she’d promised Sam she’d give a go, because upon seeing it by the television, Rachel had expressed some interest in Kristen Bell or quality acting or whatever.

Her days become a blur; her nights are more about trying to predict if Rachel is going to come home with fresh produce or take-away, and arranging the kitchen appropriately. After the third night, she knows well enough to have a Vitamin Water on hand as soon as Rachel comes in, complaining about the cold outside air and what it’s doing to her lungs.

“I’m ready, I’m ready,” Rachel says urgently, like they’re gearing up for labor as opposed to a casual night of television. She shucks most of her outerwear in seconds and flops down next to Santana on the couch. “I’ve been thinking _all day_ about what I would do if I found out I’d been dating my brother, which isn’t even entirely out of the realm of possibility what with my birth mother not being in my life, and--”

Santana snorts. “Only _you_ would go there, babe.”

“No, but, really. Do you think they’ll _actually_ make her and Duncan _relatives_?”

Rachel’s eyes are like crazy wide and she probably _has_ spent all day thinking about this, which is still a more productive way to spend eight hours than what Santana did--sleep, eat, nap, call Chastity for some phone sex, sleep again--but even so, she’s judging, a little.

“Why don’t I go make dinner,” she says, with a pointed look, “and if you can contain yourself for another five minutes, we’ll find out.”

“Patience is _not_ my strong suit,” Rachel mumbled, sulking.

“Dinner doesn’t fucking make itself, so just sit and be quiet, if you can,” Santana says, flicking her on the cheek in passing. “It’ll be worth it, I promise.”

*

Twenty minutes later, they’re starting up the first episode, and Rachel turns to her. “Hey. We should head out later. Go to Times Square, just to tick off yet another New York cliche.”

Santana swallows a bite of cannelloni and then says, “Yeah, yeah. Shh. Don’t talk during the _Mars_ , okay.”

“You and Sam would’ve made such a good couple,” Rachel says, with a slightly sad smile.

“Yeah, except for that part where I’m more attracted to his...” Santana starts to say, and then shuts herself up, just in time, because _what the fuck?_ “... girly mouth than the rest of him.”

“Well, you can’t have it all,” Rachel says.

*

They don’t end up making it off the couch at all, and Santana actually snaps, “Fuck” when the sound of fireworks outside drowns out a _pivotal_ reveal in the murder mystery plot.

Rachel looks at her wrist watch and says, “Oh, geez. This is so lame.”

“If anyone asks we were at a party,” Santana says, staring at her. “Fucking _promise_ me.”

“Yeah, of course,” Rachel says, rewinding and then pausing the DVD. “Um.”

Santana feels literally all her limbs turn to stone at what’s coming next, because it’s midnight and people are going to start texting soon, if not just calling, and already one phone is starting to vibrate.

“It’s a silly tradition,” Rachel murmurs after a moment, reaching for her phone.

Santana will never be able to explain to anyone what the hell about _that_ statement launches her across the sofa and against Rachel’s lips, but either way, it sort of _happens_ , and Rachel just sort of _lets her_ do it, and then she’s back on her side of the couch, trying to look.... casual.

(She’s pretty sure she’s failing abysmally.)

“Hi, Daddy,” is the next thing to come out of Rachel’s mouth, and Santana literally feels like she’s going to die for one second--all _do they know? Can they tell that I just_ kissed _their kid?_ \--which is of course bullshit.

She pulls it together, getting up casually before miming a calling motion at Rachel, who still looks a little shell-shocked, but otherwise just nods.

Armed with phone, she calls Quinn from her bedroom, and listens to Quinn bleat loudly about how hot the swim team is and how they’re going to teach her how to swim in jello or something, all the while chewing on a fingernail and wondering what the fuck Chastity is doing tonight.

Rachel’s head peeks around the corner a moment later, with a small smile. “Happy New Year,” she mouths.

“Yeah, you too,” Santana mumbles, as Quinn goes, “--and everything is totally _awesome_ ” in the background, before whooping loudly.

… that’s _one_ interpretation of the start of 2013.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my God, this is a monster! I think the length explains why it took so long. Many, many thanks to A, R & B for all the hand-holding and proofreading over the past however many weeks. This is once again not realistic re: New York but is pretty realistic re: that awkward moment when someone explains to you that one of your best friends is gorgeous, so, I hope it was worth the wait. ;)

4.

So.

Things they don’t talk about: New Year’s Eve.

After a semi-awkward next morning, a few normal weeks pass, and everything is just as it always is between them. Rachel is _hardly_ the first girl Santana’s ever pecked on the mouth, anyway, and if it’s not sending Rachel into a tailspin, there’s really no reason why she should still be thinking about it.

Second semester is just as hectic as the first semester was, but Santana feels just about three percent more in control of her schedule this time around. It helps to actually know most of the people in her classes, and to have that steady interlude of coffee with Rachel every afternoon.

Rachel seems to be more in touch with how to not kill herself as well, which is a good change; although it still surprises Santana on some level when, over coffee, Rachel asks her if she’s free on Friday at about 3pm.

“Yeah, uh, I’ll be here. Reading about pygmies,” Santana says, holding up her textbook.

“That’s _not_ what that book’s about,” Rachel says, with a laugh. “Anyway. I--I got a call back. Finally. It’s not for anything, you know, special, but--” She trails off and stares into her mug. “I’m sort of used to religiously overanalyzing my own performances, but now that my Dads aren’t here, I don’t really know who to ask about taping them or taking notes.”

“What, so I get to sit in an auditorium like some total creeper with a camcorder?”

Rachel looks up briefly and then says, “I would just rather you do it than someone else. Your brutal honesty is refreshing, and I’d rather hear it from you than from yet another rejection phone call at this point.”

Santana almost says something like, _but why would I have anything bad to say? You’re fucking brilliant_ , but that’s only going to make Rachel feel shittier if _yet again_ she’s just not what they’re looking for.

She clears her throat and then just says, “Yeah, I mean, if you need cutting to the quick I’m probably your go-to girl, aren’t I.”

“I didn’t--”

“No, it’s cool. Don’t apologize for it now. You want the hard truth, I’m the bitch you need,” Santana says, and goes back to her book.

Rachel’s on her feet about twenty minutes later, and stops right next to Santana’s comfy chair, just to say, “I didn’t mean that I wanted you to do this because you have the capacity to be incredibly cruel. What I meant is that I trust your opinion.”

Santana sighs and says, “Sorry, it’s just, you know, sometimes I still feel a little--fucked up about … high school.”

“Yeah. Sometimes I do, too. But this wasn’t one of those times,” Rachel says, squeezing her shoulder just once. “Okay?”

Santana doesn’t apologize again. She’s already tried it with words, and anyway, the best thing about Rachel is that she’s emotionally filter-free. If she says it’s not a big deal, then it’s not.

“Okay.”

*

Rachel’s flawless, of course. Santana almost chews through a pencil in trying to come up with something critical, because she’s pretty sure that Rachel will deem her to have failed at her job if she doesn’t get the part and there isn’t some scathing commentary on where she went wrong on the page, but like, whatever.

How the hell do you criticize the best singer you’ve ever known?

_You’re at your best when every emotion you have shows on your face, like you’re some giant Furby with big google eyes who just wants someone to love her. This was restrained and professional. Let it all out next time._

It’s as close as she can get, really, when her gut reaction is mostly to walk down to those three smug tools sitting at the front of the auditorium with their clipboards and their dismissive faces, and beat them until they give Rachel the role.

Which... she doesn’t get. That’s what “we’ll call you” means in theater speak, according to Rachel, and Santana watches as she valiantly tries to keep her shoulders high, but she knows Rachel well enough to see that it was a big blow.

They meet back up outside, and Santana shoves her notes into her pocket and says, “We’ll talk about it later. There’s this great Moroccan place like, four blocks from here; we can walk over there, have some mezze--they do vegan, don’t worry--and when I’m less hungry and you’re less likely to start weeping in public, we’ll discuss, okay?”

Rachel’s head bobs briefly, and she shrugs down into her jacket before letting out a very slow sigh. “It’s just part of the job, Santana. It’s--it’s going to happen to me more often than not.”

“Well, it’s bullshit, because you were much better than that anorexic harpy that preceded you, but she’s probably going to land a role because the lighting guy wants to fuck her or something,” Santana says. “And, you know, fuck that. You don’t want to be _that_ girl.”

“Don’t I?” Rachel asks, exhaling slowly. “I mean--if that’s how it works, here...”

Santana stops them both in their tracks. “You better be joking.”

Rachel’s smile is small, but there. “I’m not interested in prostituting myself for Broadway, Santana. Honestly.”

“Well, good, because that would be a really fucked up chapter in your memoirs, and I’d rather read them if they were just all about how nobody except your awesome and really hot roommate believed you could do it and you showed all those fuckers who’s boss now that you have your EGOT and whatever.”

Rachel’s smile is more genuine. “Awesome and hot, huh?”

“Really hot,” Santana says, and Rachel laughs. “No cutting corners, Berry.”

*

Rachel brightens again over their late lunch, when Santana spends some quality time describing the absolute power lesbian that runs her 200-level sociology option this semester, complete with stern Hitler-style hand gestures to get the most out of Socratic teaching. It’s a pretty decent way to end a pretty lame day.

Santana’s phone rings when Rachel’s off paying at the counter, and when she glances at it, she also looks at the time and goes, “Oh, shit.”

After some mumbled apologies over the phone, she grabs Rachel’s coat and walks over to her with it.

“Hey, listen--I’m supposed to be meeting someone right now.”

“Oh--Chastity? Tell her I said hi,” Rachel says, tipping onto her toes to sign the receipt.

“Nah, this is some girl I met when I went to that Prop 10 rally with Candice a while ago. Her name’s Nina.”

Rachel glances at her briefly. “And--you’re friends?”

Santana rolls her eyes and holds out Rachel’s coat. “Yeah, Rachel. We’re friends. I have lots of friends.”

“I thought you and Chastity--”

“Can we just not?” Santana says, a little more sharply.

“You’re right, it’s none of my business,” Rachel says, shoving the receipt back to the waiter with a smile. “Will you--are you coming home tonight?”

“Probably not,” Santana says, before leaning in and kissing her on the cheek briefly. “We’ll see, though. If her bed’s really uncomfortable...”

Rachel rolls her eyes. “See you tomorrow, then, I guess.”

“Hey, you’re okay now, right?” Santana asks, already with one foot towards the exit. “I’m not like leaving you hanging or anything?”

Rachel’s smile seems sincere enough, even though it’s small. “Go. Have fun. Or well, I probably shouldn’t encourage you, so--”

“Yeah, whatever. Later, you jerk,” Santana says, with a grin, before busting back onto the street and calling Nina back.

*

They don’t talk about that silly kiss on New Year’s Eve.

Things they _do_ talk about:

“I don’t think we’re making the most of your freshman year college experience,” Rachel says, one morning over breakfast, pouring some syrup over the pancakes Santana has whipped up while she’s been on the elliptical. (It makes a weird humming noise when it’s on and wakes Santana up most mornings unless she’s had a particularly late night.)

“Speak for yourself,” Santana mumbles around a mouthful, before swallowing quickly. “I have a thing with Chas tonight. Study group tomorrow. … and um, on Friday I’m seeing some girl who gave me her number in the library last week, I think. I’m skipping Thursday because I need a haircut and there’s a student discount on Thursday nights at that place that Kelly gets her hair done, but--”

Rachel gives her an exasperated look. “Yes, because everyone knows the freshman year of college is supposed to be about picking up as many sexually transmitted diseases as you can.”

Santana gives Rachel a warning look. “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying here, Berry.”

“Are you even being safe?” Rachel asks, a little more pointedly.

“What are you, my mother?” Santana gulps down some orange juice and then glares at Rachel.

“I just think we should discuss this, because I’m _sure_ your mother has not, and honestly, when it was just Chastity I let it be because she and _I_ talked about her sexual safety--”

Santana coughs. “I’m sorry, _what_?”

Rachel looks at her plate. “She’s here a _lot_ , okay, and you sleep like a coma patient after--whatever it is you two do together.”

“You’re friends with Chastity?” Santana asks, because man, that somehow feels like a really, really bad idea.

“I don’t know, is it friendship to make breakfast regularly for the girl that your roommate is--is--”

“The word you want is fucking, Rach,” Santana says, sharply.

“Do you even know what a dental dam is?” Rachel asks back, in the world’s snottiest tone of voice.

Santana throws her hands up. “I’m _not_ having a conversation about dental dams with you.”

“You could get _herpes_ ,” Rachel says, emphatically. “If not gonorrhea, or God forbid, HIV.”

Santana shoves away from the breakfast bar and picks up her plate. “First of all, _thank_ you for completely fucking ruining my breakfast, and second of all, the chances of getting HIV from lesbian sex are like--”

“They’re _there_ , Santana,” Rachel says, and the look on her face just sort of stops Santana from heading over to her bedroom to eat in some goddamned peace and quiet.

“Look--I’m safe,” she finally says, more softly. “If it’s girls I hardly know, I don’t--you know, go down on them--”

“I don’t--” Rachel says, flushing hard, and then covering her face. “I don’t want to know this.”

“ _You’re_ the one who fucking brought it up!”

Rachel shakes her head. “Can you just--”

“Yeah, when you’re ready to stop being fucking crazy, maybe we can go over our Netflix queue or something,” Santana spits out, before marching into her room and slamming her door, hard.

*

There’s a pint of pralines & cream on the counter when she finally thinks she can handle another five minutes in Rachel’s face, and a note saying,

_Sorry, there was probably a more delicate way to indicate to you that I care about your well-being. What I actually wanted to talk to you about was that I feel a little disconnected now that I’m no longer in a relationship, and thought maybe we could go to some parties together. (Not ‘together’, but it is in the interest of our safety to explore the city in a pair, and I know you refuse to carry that rape whistle I gave you last year, so perhaps we can just watch out for each other.)_

_-R._

Santana sighs, and then stares at the melting ice cream before picking up the pencil from the grocery list.

_My being would be more well if you could not be fucking crazy for like ten minutes. Re: party, I”ll blow off that theater major I’m meant to be hooking up with on Friday and IDK, check out a Columbia party with a different (and much more deranged) theater major instead..._

_-S._

_PS: thanks for the pint of sludge. Could you not reach the freezer or something?_

*

They’re going to a Columbia mixer of some kind--it’s for some society Santana’s not a member of but Erin indicated it wasn’t members-only, so it’s probably an easy way to get free booze.

Rachel had earlier insisted on some ground rules--only one of them gets drunk, the other makes sure to stay mostly sober for personal protection reasons--but otherwise doesn’t seem to be too bent on turning a _fun affair_ into fucking homework for both of them.

Santana knocks on her door at about 8 and says, “You ready?”

Rachel somehow works her door open with her foot while putting in some earrings and says, “Yeah, just--hang on.”

Yeah just--hang on is girl code for “this is going to take me another twenty minutes,” so Santana sits down on the edge of Rachel’s bed and watches as a little more make-up is applied and her eyelashes are curled and finally, she takes a good five minutes to decide on perfume.

“Tommy Girl,” Santana finally says, when she’s sick of Rachel picking up and putting down different bottles.

“Really?” Rachel asks, skeptically, looking at her in the mirror.

“It’s your thing. Just--trust me, okay,” Santana says, with a shrug.

Rachel glances away after a second but gamely picks up the Tommy Girl anyway.

*

She’s about to knock on the door when Rachel’s hand on her arm stops her.

“Can you do me a favor and not disappear with someone else tonight?”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Haven’t you _ever_ read the girl code?”

“No, you and Quinn kept that one to yourselves during high school,” Rachel says, a little sharply.

Santana sighs. “Go together, home together. Okay? You don’t leave your friends behind at random fucking parties. That’s how Quinn gets pregnant.”

Rachel fights a smile. “Just Quinn?”

“Sure, the rest of us think God invented condoms for a reason,” Santana says, rapping her knuckles against the door.

*

She’s used to being hot shit at parties--seriously, more phone numbers than she can count--but somehow they’ve hit upon Rachel’s element, here.

At least two guys visibly perk up when she enters the room in her little navy blue summer dress, and Santana grins before making her way to the kitchen to grab them two beers from the fridge.

By the time she gets back to Rachel, one of the guys is already holding down a conversation with her, and she watches them talk--Rachel looking all bright and surprised that someone could actually want to talk to her, and the guy looking slightly amused by the fucking torrent of words that comes out of her mouth.

Erin shows up next to her and elbows her gently in the side. “Look at that. Our little girl, all grown up.”

“Hey, she doesn’t party much. Or at least, she didn’t,” Santana says, taking another sip of beer.

“Really? But she’s so--outgoing,” Erin says.

“Yeah, well, she is now.” Santana picks at the beer label for a moment and then says, “Actually, she always was. We just--high school was different for us. She got bullied a lot.”

“By you?” Erin asks, knowingly.

Santana purses her lips and lowers her head for a moment. “Yeah. Among other people.”

“How’d you get past it?”

Santana watches as the guy leans down and says something to Rachel, and Rachel lets out a surprised peal of laughter before nodding when the guy makes a drinking motion.

“She’s very forgiving,” Santana finally says, smiling faintly when Rachel looks around for her, and holding up her spare bottle of beer with a raised eyebrow.

“I think that guy wants to sleep with me,” Rachel sort of stage-hisses when she walks over to collect it. “What do I do?!”

“Do you want to sleep with him?” Erin asks, sounding very amused.

“Well--not right _now_ ,” Rachel says. “I mean, we’re in public!”

Santana almost spits out a mouthful of beer at the indignation in Rachel’s voice, and after quickly swallowing it, says, “Pretty sure he’d take you to a bedroom or something, Rach.”

“Oh, like in the movies,” Rachel says, taking a very pensive-looking sip from her beer. “Well, while I am all for the cliche, his hairline is receding and I would rather spend some time with my friends.”

“You see me all the time,” Santana says, raising her eyebrows.

“Not like this,” Rachel says, before clearing her throat and straightening as her would-be suitor makes his way back over.

Jeff, with the receding hairline, is the first of about five guys who chat Rachel up over the course of the night, and Santana laughs at how all of them are summarily dismissed within about fifteen minutes, even as Rachel complains about how the stereotypes of boys growing up in their early twenties are definitely not true.

By the time they’re ready to leave, Rachel is a little bit tipsy and Santana’s a lot drunk--a logical consequence of just standing around and making sure Rachel didn’t like, make an ass out of herself--and Santana says, “I can’t believe you got more numbers than I did tonight.”

“I think the perpetual scowl might have put some people off,” Rachel says, helping Santana into her coat and then squeezing her into a hug. “Thank you, though. This was a thoroughly bizarre experience, but I feel--well, a little bit better, about being alone.”

“You’re not alone,” Santana says, testing her balance briefly before deciding she’s going to need at least an arm around her waist to make it to the subway, let alone down the stairs. “Alone is like, without anyone. You’re not alone.”

Rachel snorts and says, “Are you feeling philosophical right now?”

“I’m just smart. I go to Barnard, girls like that,” Santana says, slinging an arm around Rachel’s shoulders. “Right? Girls like that?”

Rachel gives her a strange little smile, and then says, “Yeah. Girls like that.”

*

It sets a new pattern for the second semester. When she’s not busy cramming in the library, or working on group projects with a bunch of other people, she’s finding things for her and Rachel to do on weekends.

They’re still exhausted, both of them; Rachel’s still running up and down the entire city for jobs, auditions and classes, but they make a pact that they’ll do something fun that gets them out of sweatpants at least once a week, and after a month of committing to partying from time to time, it starts feeling like something natural to do.

Sometimes, they go to places with people they know; other times, they just head out into the city to see what they can do--something that makes Rachel incredibly nervous because _plans are important, okay_ , but she sort of grudgingly goes along with it anyway. It’s how they end up sneaking into an art show opening full of semi-famous people at the tail end of February, and how they end up eating waffles at a Polish diner at 3am on the first weekend of March.

She’s in bed with Chastity one morning, wondering how it is that she’s awake first because that _never_ happens, when she hears the sound of Rachel’s elliptical come on, and it just sort of dumbly hits her that she’s the happiest she’s been in years.

(It’s the first time she thinks of Britt since Christmas, and maybe it’s just a little bit gay, but there’s a skip in her step when she gets up to make pancake batter. When Rachel’s work-out playlist hits on _I Will Survive_ , she sings along at the top of her lungs.)

*

She’s in the middle of taking an in-class test when her phone rings, loudly--and she doesn’t even need to check to see if it’s Rachel, because Quinn over Christmas changed her Rachel ringtone to Beyonce’s _Diva_ , and Santana keeps forgetting to change it because it’s so funny--and she curses before fishing it out of her bag. She gets it to silent before apologizing to her professor, who glares at her hard from the other side of the room, and then jolts again when it vibrates a second later with a text message.

_I GOT IN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

Santana takes one look at her test and then decides: fuck it.

“Sorry, I’m--yeah, whatever,” she whispers, dropping the paper off at the front of the class, before heading out the door and running all the way to the subway stop.

*

“We have to do something, though,” Santana insists.

“No, I mean, it’s not a big deal.”

“Uh, I beg to differ, as does my Feminist Texts grade,” Santana says, frowning.

Rachel’s still clutching the paperwork-- _not a big deal, my ass_ , Santana thinks--and Santana plucks it from her fingers. “It’ll still be here when we get back.”

“Santana,” Rachel finally says, getting up from the couch, almost _glowing_ with joy even though she’s frowning. “Is it up to _me_ how we celebrate?”

“Well, sure, I mean, it’s your thing.”

“Okay, then change into some sweatpants, and come sit on the couch next to me, and we’ll watch Funny Girl.”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to see Funny Girl because I’m an asshole who doesn’t appreciate Streisand, or something.”

“You are heavily paraphrasing me, and anyway, now that you’ve seen Avenue Q and enjoyed it, I’m willing to give you a chance.”

“It’s dirty muppets, Rach; that’s not exactly the same as watching the Queen of Schnozz whine about how hard it is to be Jewish or whatever the fuck Funny Girl is about.”

“Santana--” Rachel makes a frustrated little noise. “If I agree to go out with you later, can we watch Funny Girl now?”

Santana grins. “See? Compromise. That’s how you get places in life, Berry.”

Rachel rolls her eyes and mutters something about making the popcorn extra salty, but when Santana gets back to the living room, of course there’s a massive ass bowl of buttered on the sofa between them.

“If you say anything bad about this musical, our friendship is over,” Rachel says, warningly.

“Yeah, I kind of got that, don’t worry,” Santana says, before carefully sitting down on the sofa and pulling her knees up to her chest.

*

Rachel looks at her warily a good two and a half hours later.

“Holy _shit_ , that was depressing,” Santana says, when it’s clear that she has to say something.

“It’s about empowerment,” Rachel says, sounding a little nauseous and relieved all at once.

“Yeah, I mean, I got that. I’ve heard you sing _Don’t Rain On My Parade_ before, remember?” Santana says, before shaking her head. “Just--fuck me. _This_ is why people shouldn’t get married. Or why relationships are just--whatever.”

Rachel just gapes at her. “How is _that_ what you got from what we just saw?”

“It’s--” Santana sighs. “I liked it, okay. I just thought it was--I mean. Why couldn’t they just work it _out_?”

Rachel’s expression relaxes after a long moment, and then she laughs. “You’re a romantic.”

“What? _No,_ I just--”

“It’s cute,” Rachel says, crinkling her nose. “I imagine that you’ll find most musicals too depressing to handle, however.”

“No shit,” Santana says, thinking back to the hour and a half she spent trying _not_ to cry at RENT.

“Maybe we should watch Grease or Oklahoma! or something,” Rachel says, teasingly. “That seems more like your gentle little heart might be able to handle it.”

Santana flips her the bird and Rachel grins.

“Where are we going?”

“The fuck I’m taking your ungrateful ass anywhere,” Santana grumbles.

Rachel laughs and says, “Fine. I’ll call one of my many suitors and get them to take me out on the town.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Whatever, Rachel. I happen to know that that indie cinema in the Village is doing Rocky Horror tonight, but if you’d rather go out for a boring ass dinner with some jackass you met at that fundraiser last week--”

Rachel’s squeal is deafening, and Santana grunts when Rachel basically mounts her before blabbering on and on about how she still has her Janet costume.

“How do you know me so well?” she finally asks, leaning back a little bit and flicking the tip of Santana’s nose.

“You’re _very_ predictable,” Santana says, dryly.

*

Spring break rolls around, and with spring break comes Quinn, _at last_.

It’s raining outside when Quinn’s train pulls into Penn Station, and Santana rocks from her heels onto her toes to try to scan the crowd piling out. Quinn’s hair has thankfully grown out a little bit and actually looks darling; all of Quinn does, with her massive sunglasses and her blueish green scarf she looks like she’s lived in the city her entire life.

Santana sticks up a hand in greeting, and Quinn smiles wide before ambling over with her oversized carrier bag.

“We’re dropping that off; then we’re doing _all_ the tourist shit we can today; and tomorrow, we’re going to a beauty treatment thing. My mom got me some e-vouchers and I’ve been hanging onto them until you got here,” Santana says, pulling her into a tight hug.

“This--is everything _always_ this busy? I mean, I know I’ve been before, but that was on a bus--and sort of--different,” Quinn says, pulling away and looking around her.

“You get used to it,” Santana says, which is true and untrue at the same time.

“Wow. Okay. Show me your place,” Quinn says, linking their arms together.

It’s stopped raining by the time they leave the station.

*

Rachel has somehow made herself scarce, but obviously comes home at some point, looking exhausted and yawning in greeting rather than her usual overbearing hostess shit, so Santana says, “Pause that, will you?”

They’ve spent the entire day on their feet and watching some ridiculous romantic comedy together seemed like the best way to give their blisters a break, but someone’s going to have to make sure Rachel doesn’t go to bed without eating, and it’s probably not going to be Quinn.

“Hey, how was your trip?” Rachel asks, before sinking into the armchair and putting her feet up.

“Long,” Quinn says. “Are you just _now_ done with your jobs?”

“Mm,” Rachel says, tipping her head back. “Nothing heavy, please. Do we still have some of the--um--”

“No, I had that for lunch yesterday, but what about that noodle thing with the cabbage?” Santana asks, holding it up.

“With the sauce?”

“Yeah, and those crispy things,” Santana confirms.

“That sounds great. Wine?”

“Oh, Chas left a bottle of Riesling last time she was over, so--yeah?”

Rachel makes a face as Santana pops the container of Chinese food into the microwave. “Too dry.”

“Oh, we have some--” Santana snaps her fingers. “The fox thing. The pink fox?”

“The rose.”

“Yeah, from when Erin and Kelly were over for board game night the other week.”

“Yeah, that’s delightful. Fruity,” Rachel says, folding her legs up on the chair. “Thanks.”

“No prob,” Santana says, as the microwave dings.

Quinn is looking at her with a really funny expression when she settles back down.

“How was your audition?” Santana asks Rachel, ignoring Quinn’s look completely because, whatever. The apartment’s so small, it’s only natural they’re starting to read each other’s minds.

Rachel just shakes her head before pulling up some noodles with chopsticks. “Not tonight, okay?”

Santana feels her face fall with sympathy and then reaches over and pats Rachel on the leg twice, before nodding at Quinn to start the movie again.

Rachel falls asleep about ten minutes after she’s done eating, and Quinn falls asleep about five minutes after that. Santana stays awake until Kate Hudson gets her man, and then tips onto her side and falls asleep on Quinn’s lap as well.

*

The next day, they catch up on Lima.

Quinn somehow is better at keeping in touch with people than either Santana or Rachel are, though they fill in some of the blanks over breakfast.

“Mercedes thinks Tina and Mike are going to break up soon,” Rachel contributes, before taking a sip of green tea and wincing. “Which--I’m not surprised, honestly.”

“Mmm,” Quinn agrees.

“Wait. Why are we not surprised?” Santana asks, her hands wrapped around her coffee mug, and her eyes darting back and forth between them. “She--last summer, she was talking about getting married to him eventually.”

“It’s what everyone expects them to do,” Quinn says. “Doesn’t mean it’s what they want.”

“Oh, God, not this again,” Santana groans. “You two and your grass is always greener bullshit.”

Rachel chuckles and then gives Quinn a serious look. “Have you--Puck emailed me last week and said that Sam was coming up. Is he--have you--”

“He’s okay,” Quinn says. “We had dinner together and he’s--as good as you’d expect.”

Rachel sighs softly and then slips off her stool. “Good. I want him to be happy, so--”

Quinn makes another consenting noise, and then looks at Santana. “So--am I going to meet Chastity?”

“She’s not my girlfriend.”

Quinn’s smile is a little bit cynical. “Santana, honey, if I’m only ever going to meet girls that you are willing to _admit_ you’re dating, I’m pretty sure I’d just never meet anyone.”

Rachel laughs at the sink and says, “You should come visit more often. It’s nice to have an ally.”

“She’s throwing a party in honor of having passed all of her credits this weekend,” Santana says, after thinking about it for a minute. “Like, it’s not official, but Juilliard is ahead of the marking cycle and unless she sustains a brain injury and can’t play in her final concerto, she’s done.”

Rachel looks at her over her shoulder, washing her cereal bowl quickly. “And you were going to tell me this _when_?”

“She’s _not my girlfriend_. It was open invitation,” Santana says, with a shrug. “We’ll go, though, because she has a fuckload of alcohol at her house and it should be fun.”

Quinn eats another small bite toast and then wipes at her mouth. “At the risk of giving Rachel a spontaneous orgasm--are you guys up for karaoke sometime this week?”

Santana laughs when Rachel just flips Quinn off without even turning around.

“I’m not sure I want to be singing with you two amateurs. I’m sure you’ve done many things that are harmful to your voices in the time since Glee ended, and honestly--”

“Fuck her, Q, we’ll go kick ass together. Remember that Korean sing-off we had after Nationals the first time?” Santana asks, before leaning into Quinn’s side and stealing her last bit of toast.

“Not really, but that’s sort of what we were going for with how much we drank, isn’t it,” Quinn says, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

Santana grins at Rachel. “Quinn’s fun when she’s really drunk. I know it’s hard to believe-- _ow_ \--but--”

Rachel looks between them for a moment with an inscrutable expression, before finally saying, much more soberly, “I think it’d be fun. I need a reminder of why I started singing to begin with, I think, and this might just be it.”

“Cool,” Quinn says, polishing off the last of the orange juice. “I’m going to go wash my hair, because the air here is killing it. And then we’ll head out to that spa thing?”

“Sure thing,” Santana says, slapping her on the ass as she heads to the bathroom.

Rachel flicks the rest of the suds on her hands into the sink and then dries her hand with a towel. “You’ve missed her.”

“Well, yeah,” Santana says, pressing her thumb into some of the crumbs left on Quinn’s plate and eating those too. “Quinn and I didn’t always get along, but she’s always understood me, and I’ve always understood her. She’s like my sister, you know? I love her to pieces.”

Rachel’s smile is a little strained. “It shows.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “Oh come on, you’re not _jealous_ , are you? Jesus, Rachel, I liked you better when you were annoyingly overconfident.”

“Of course I’m not. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Well, good, because it’s not like I don’t feel the same way about you.”

Rachel takes a deep breath and says, “I know, you jerk. Of course I know.”

“You’re being so lame right now I can’t even put it into words. I expected this kind of shit from Quinn, because she’s _way_ territorial, but come on, you’re not like that.”

Rachel sighs and says, “Yeah, you’re right. I’m not. I’m just tired. Yesterday’s audition took a lot out of me. I worked on that one for three weeks straight, and--honestly, I feel like I just didn’t get it because I’m not blonde. There’s just not a whole lot I can do about that, is there.”

“Yeah, so, say _fuck it_ , and remember that eventually all those assholes who are giving you grief now are going to be _begging_ to work with you,” Santana says, pointedly.

Rachel laughs. “Yeah, yeah. I know.”

They’re silent for a moment, and it feels like a loaded silence without any sort of awkwardness; water runs in the background and Quinn is humming something, and they really should find an apartment with thicker walls, but whatever. It’s home.

Rachel pushes away from the sink and smiles. “You know, sometimes I wish you ruled New York City the way you did McKinley. My life would be a lot easier. Granted, there are a lot more people here for you to push around and intimidate, but--”

“Give me time, and I’ll buy you a fucking theater just so you can perform, babe,” Santana says, winking and flicking a crumb in Rachel’s general direction.

*

Some of their friends meet them for karaoke a few days later, and everyone seems _astonished_ that Santana can sing, which amuses her more than it should.

Quinn, of course, is in fine form after five beers; when she’s not making out with Candice’s brother Jason (and seriously, some part of Santana watches Quinn get hit on by a budding stock broker and just thinks, _and thus the universe rights itself_ ), she’s dragging Santana up to sing the world’s most embarrassing songs.

It’s a little lame for her to find out that she’s familiar with the entire Ke$ha back catalogue just because her drunken-ass best friend insists on singing most of it, anyway.

Rachel mostly just looks amused while sipping on something with a bendy straw, and then talks to Ellie’s friend Amanda for a while, who finally nudges her onto the stage.

Santana says, “Oh, thank God, she’s _unstoppable_ ,” when Rachel joins them. “Help me. I need water.”

“No way,” Quinn says, popping up like a devil behind her and poking Rachel in the chest. “You two should sing together. Because you’re the best, and Santana’s the other best, and I don’t think I can stand anymore, and Jason’s a really good kisser.”

“Well, in light of that irrefutable argument,” Santana says, rolling her eyes, but reaching for Rachel’s hand anyway. “Any requests, Ms. Berry?”

Rachel smiles and says, “I don’t suppose you have the entire Wicked soundtrack memorized, do you? Because _What Is This Feeling_ has always felt like it could be about us.”

Santana laughs. “Despite your best efforts, what with belting it out in the shower almost every day: _no_.”

Rachel glances through the possibilities for a long moment and then says, “Oh. _Of course_.”

“Um, it better not be _Wind Beneath My Wings_ , or I will clock you with the microphone.”

Rachel laughs and says, “No. Something much worse than that.”

She queues it without letting Santana see, who frowns at the first few lines of music and then just freezes when Rachel starts singing.

Amanda, in the audience, groans loudly and then calls out, “Hilarious, Rachel. You’re the first person to have _ever_ thought of this.”

Rachel grins while over-singing the first verse and then nudges Santana, who somehow manages to get through the next five lines of Barry Manilow’s ode to a dog without clenching her teeth or singing through her nose.

*

Quinn’s week goes by too quickly, because before they know, it’s Friday and time for that party at Chastity’s.

It’s weird to go back to doing pre-party-prep with three chicks, because she really hasn’t since--well, Brittany--but they separately have incredibly solid routines set out, and the only thing Rachel and Quinn seem to agree on is what Santana should be wearing, so. It works out all right.

Chastity’s roommate Ben opens the door for them, air-kisses Santana, compliments Rachel and Quinn, and then directs them straight to a table full of every kind of alcohol God has given man.

“Puck would grow a bone at the sight of this,” Santana says, and Quinn says, “Disgusting, but true.”

It’s a lot of alcohol, and a party full of people from Juilliard who look at them quizzically, which is the downside to sleeping with someone whose life Santana is generally not really involved in.

Ellie spots them after a while and makes her way over, though, kissing Santana on the lips, Rachel on the cheek, and offering Quinn a hand before pointing out some other people in the room that aren’t totally lame and conceited.

Still, though, the alcohol helps more than anything; as does that low-cut v-neck dress that Chastity is wearing, and since Quinn’s around to watch Rachel and vice versa, she doesn’t even feel that bad about disappearing into the kitchen for a good five minutes to slip a hand up Chastity’s dress and mumble something about string sections.

Chastity laughs but then ducks away and gets some more ice out of the freezer, and Santana leans against the counter, wondering how the hell she got so drunk so quickly, before remembering that they generally only drink wine and beer, and not vodka tonics.

“Great party, yo,” she says, before laughing at herself.

“Your friend from back home is hot,” Chastity says. “You ever go there?”

“Nah, no way. She’s married to God,” Santana says.

“Still, though; must be something in the water in Ohio--all your friends are gorgeous,” Chastity says, which is kind of a strange thing to say while stabbing at a block of ice with a pick. She manages to make it not look all _Basic Instinct_ somehow, though.

“Yeah, they are,” Santana agrees, finishing her drink, and then stealing a chunk of ice and eating it. “I mean, well, Quinn is, and Brittany was, and--”

“What, are you saying Rachel isn’t?” Chastity asks, shooting her a curious look.

“Rachel is just _Rachel_ ,” Santana says. Which: duh.

Chastity drops the ice pick, grabs her by the shoulders and moves her into the doorway. “Okay, you need a reality check. _Look_ at her.”

Santana blinks. “What? I mean, yeah, that dress is awesome. You know why? I bought it for her.”

Chastity gives her another look and then shakes her head. “For someone who literally has slept with pretty much every eligible gay girl I know, you are _blind_. She has _killer_ legs; a great smile, her hair looks like it’s possibly the softest thing alive, and she’s not exactly short-changed up top either.”

Santana squints and then shakes her head. “Yeah, but, _she’s Rachel_.”

“But what if she wasn’t?”

Santana doesn’t say anything for a long time and then rolls her eyes. “Okay, what is this conversation? I’m not drunk enough, or maybe _you’re_ not drunk enough. Either way, can we go back to hooking up against your fridge now, or what?”

Chastity laughs and heads back to the counter. “Whatever, Lopez. All I’m saying is that if she wasn’t completely not into me, I would’ve probably tried to hook up with her by now.”

Santana glances at Rachel again, and then glances at Chastity, and finally says, “Well, she’s straight, so, of course she’s not into you.”

“Straight, maybe, but mostly just gay-friendly _and_ hot,” Chastity says, before ramming the pick back into the ice. “I’ve worked with that combination before.”

There is absolutely no reason for any of this conversation to be bothering Santana, which is how she knows she basically just needs another drink.

*

Jason shows up with Candice, and looks for Quinn, who immediately lets her posture go from metal-rodded to sort of slouching in a far more seductive way, and Santana watches it happen with a laugh.

Whatever; at least New York will be memorable enough for Quinn to want to actually move in a year’s time. She vaguely remembers that she should probably talk to Rachel about living arrangements, but really, her head’s all sorts of fuzzy and anyway, Rachel is too busy shoving her tongue down some guy’s--

Wait a minute.

Ellie shows up next to her while her head is slowly starting to catch up to what her eyes are seeing, and says, “I’d joke about how all musical theater majors are predictably bisexual, but I _really_ didn’t see that coming.”

“No,” Santana says, tossing back the remainder of her drink. “You’re not alone there.”

“Well, good on her. Best way to move on is getting back up on the horse; gender irrelevant, right?” Ellie says, before reaching for the empty glass. “I’ll fill you back up, you can stay here and glare daggers some more.”

“I’m not glaring,” Santana says, wrenching her eyes away and then looking for Chastity, who is having a conversation with Ben about something that is probably instruments, and, God, why is her drink empty? “I’ll come with you, because you mix like a lady and I drink like a dude.”

Ellie gives her a knowing smile. “Planning on getting trashed tonight, then?”

Santana shrugs, because there’s _not_ much planning involved.

*

Quinn asks what the hell is going on with her.

She would explain herself, except she can barely form words. A shrug is the best that Quinn is going to get, and Quinn’s response is a frown and a glass of water.

“Not interested,” Santana says, pushing her hand away, and then heading back into the kitchen to just get the fuck out of that living room where literally everyone she knows seems to be hooking up with _someone_.

Seriously--she’s scored with some random at least once a week _since_ she’s started hooking up with girls in New York. So of all the nights for absolutely nothing to be happening, _why_ this one?

Her head drops forward against a kitchen counter and she sways dangerously, which is when someone wraps a hand around her back and steadies her.

“Easy, girl,” Rachel says, softly. “My God, how much have you had to drink?”

“Don’t know,” Santana says, roughly, because Rachel is _for real_ the last person she wants to see right now. (She can’t really bend her mind around _why_ , but it is what it is.)

“Are you okay?” Rachel asks.

“I’m--whatever, yeah, fine,” Santana mumbles, pushing away from Rachel a bit and pressing back into the counter for some balance. “Shouldn’t you be going back to whoever you were planning on fucking tonight?”

She glances at Rachel when no response is forthcoming, and something flashes in Rachel’s eyes that she should probably recognize.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Rachel asks, a little sharply.

“You and whatever her name is,” Santana forces out. “Which, by the way, those of us who are actually gay aren’t all that fucking into that whole bicurious college thing that straight girls like you have going on.”

Rachel’s face hardens. “You know, if you weren’t so drunk, I would hold you accountable for what a condescending ass you’re being right now, but I don’t really see the point in engaging you in a serious discussion when you can’t even direct your predictable insults at me without slurring.”

“I’m not insulting you. And you are short. So fuck you,” Santana responds, slowly, because Rachel is still looking at her, and man, her hair really _does_ look really soft. Before she can stop herself, she’s reaching for it, and Rachel jerks away from her.

“You need some water,” she says, shortly, and when she turns towards the sink, Santana blurts out, “If you wanted to fucking kiss some girl, why didn’t you just ask me?”

Rachel gives her a really incredulous look, and yep, those weren’t the words that she was planning on saying at all, but they’re the ones that came out.

Rachel just shakes her head, and that’s fucking ridiculous, because like, Santana’s pretty sure that she just made an _offer_ , and since when do people say no to her?

“Here,” Rachel says, holding out a recently-rinsed long drink glass, and when Santana reaches for it, she tugs on Rachel’s hand just about hard enough to get her within range. So what if they almost fall over? It’s all fucking Rachel’s fault anyway.

“Why?” she asks, again, when Rachel starts looking a little bit terrified and a lot conflicted.

“You’re--Santana,” Rachel says, which is like saying Rachel is Rachel, and even though she’s _off her ass_ drunk, that sounds like exactly the same thing that didn’t make any sense to Chastity earlier.

“It’s--it’ll be good. Just--c’mere,” she says, moving in just a little bit closer. Rachel closes her eyes, and Santana can feel her breathing, they’re that close to each other now, and--

“Oh, _there_ you are,” Quinn calls out, loudly.

Rachel jumps back immediately and says, “We’re going to need to get a cab; I don’t think she can walk home.”

“Agreed,” Quinn says, in the same tone of voice that she used to use when Cheerios drills were being mangled by the freshman, and Santana half-heartedly tries to straighten. “Why don’t you go get our coats, and I’ll call for one?”

That’s a dumb idea, because it's New York and people don't _call_ cabs, and Santana is about to point that out, but Rachel’s already left and Quinn looks _really_ angry.

“What?” she asks, willing her mouth to make the noise, because it’s not all that keen on doing what she wants right now. (What she wants is to be kissing Rachel, but that’s not going to happen, because Rachel is in a different room and Quinn is looking like she might take that ice pick and--)

She laughs, unwillingly, and then grunts when Quinn pulls her upright and wraps an arm around her waist.

“I’m a little drunk,” she finally says, when she’s gotten her breath back under control. “This party was fucked up.”

Quinn shakes her head and says, “I can’t fucking believe you sometimes, do you know that?”

“You swore,” Santana points out, as they take a few unsteady steps towards the living room. “That’s cool, why though.”

“Santana, for the love of God, just _shut up_ ,” Quinn snaps.

It’s years of experience of listening to Quinn barking out orders that makes that actually work, because she does, the entire way back home.

*

When she wakes up, her head is _pounding_ and she can’t remember much of anything past Rachel making out with some girl.

What the fuck was _that_ about, anyway?

She doesn’t really have the head space to dwell on it, though, because their apartment has the thinnest walls and Rachel and Quinn seem to be reliving high school in the kitchen.

She stumbles towards the door to her bedroom and leans against it as their voices climb.

“--you would have more sense than to let her--”

“I _didn’t let her_ , Quinn, and for what it’s worth, thank you _so_ much for keeping an eye on her last night. It’s not like I was hoping that perhaps we could babysit her _together_.”

“So what, this is my fault now?” Quinn exclaims, sounding completely incredulous. “You know what, screw that, Berry. She weighs like a _hundred pounds_. She didn’t make you do anything. And you would’ve completely gone along with it if I hadn’t walked in when I did.”

“And so what if I had? I really don’t see how it concerns you--”

“Oh my God, how are both of you so fucking stupid?” Quinn yells, and Santana flinches away from the door at it. “You’re not just some girl she picks up in a bar, Rachel, you’re her roommate and you _know_ how incredibly emotionally damaged she is, so on what planet is it okay to just _kiss her_?”

The Tylenol is in the bathroom, and Santana might actually pass out if she doesn’t get to it soon, but there is _no_ way she is walking out there now.

“I didn’t _start_ it,” Rachel hisses, loudly. “And for what it’s worth, maybe I’m a little sick of taking into consideration how emotionally damaged Santana is, okay? It’s not an excuse for every single thing she does to screw up her life. She’s not the only one with problems.”

Silence descends on the room after that, and Santana takes a deep breath before pushing her door open.

Quinn’s staring at the television blankly, and Rachel is tidying their exceptionally clean kitchen counters with hurried, angry motions. They’re both facing the wrong direction, however, so she makes it to the bathroom without either of them noticing.

Two pills and a shower later, and she starts to feel like maybe it will be okay for her to go out there and hang out with them, or something.

(She wonders what the protocol is for almost begging your roommate to kiss you. Then again, the last time Rachel was drunk, they were all told about the wonders of her lacking gag reflex, so maybe the protocol is just to pretend it _never happened_.

Santana looks at herself in the mirror and takes a deep breath.

She can roll with that.)

*

Rachel disappears for the rest of the day, after a really stilted breakfast during which Santana maybe grunted three words, and then Quinn stares her down, hard.

“You’re an asshole,” she finally says.

“What--”

“Rachel kisses another girl, and it bothers you so much that you just _have_ to get in there?”

Santana feels her jaw muscles twitch. “That’s not what happened. I was just drunk, and Chastity was busy, and--”

“She’s your roommate, and... a good friend, and she’s obviously trying really hard to get over Sam, so either way, it was a shitty thing to do to her.”

Santana glances up at Quinn, who is still staring at her, and then says, “Look. It wasn’t a big deal. I was drunk, Rachel was there, it was just--it won’t happen again.”

Quinn sighs and says, “Get your sunglasses. We’re going to Central Park and do whatever it is that people do there.”

“Cringe at the feeling of daylight?” Santana asks, with a small smile.

Quinn’s expression lets up a little and she says, “You deserve it, after last night.”

*

On Quinn’s last day, when Quinn’s finally stopped being pissed at both of them and Santana is also pretty sure she can actually bear spending ten minutes in Rachel’s presence again--who seems to be on board with plan _let’s never talk about this again_ \--she gets an email from her mother that just says, “Important.”

Her mother _never_ emails her, so she opens it immediately, and then spends ten minutes reading in silence while Quinn’s flipping through a magazine in on her bed.

She doesn’t even realize she’s crying until Quinn says, “Hey--what’s going on?”

“It’s--” Santana doesn’t say anything else, just picks up her laptop and hands it over to Quinn, who starts reading with a frown that slowly disappears, until Quinn looks as confused and sad as Santana feels.

“I didn’t see this coming,” Santana finally says.

“No, neither did I,” Quinn says, softly. “I can’t say that I ever got the impression that they were super happy together, but they... your parents aren’t like _my_ parents. God, I’m so sorry.”

Santana nods and says, “Well, I mean. It’s okay. Right? People get divorced all the time.”

Quinn doesn’t respond, just puts the laptop on the floor and opens up her arms. “C’mere.”

*

Quinn _has_ to go back the next day; as soon as she leaves, the tension in the house falls away, and Rachel takes up the empty space on the couch where Quinn was snuggling with her before.

It’s ridiculous; she has reading to do, but she can’t concentrate, and every time she even so much as thinks about Lima, she feels something gnawing and devastated rise up in her chest..

She hasn’t been this sad about anything since junior year of high school, and when Rachel wraps an arm around her back and says, “I bought five pints of ice cream. They’re in the freezer this time,” Santana bursts into tears and doesn’t even really _care_.

*

She meets Chastity for lunch a week later-- _not_ a euphemism--to apologize for getting embarrassingly smashed at her upper class Juilliard party, or whatever. Not her heart’s in it much; given what happened afterwards, she doesn’t even really care about the stupid party anymore.

Maybe her mom and dad splitting up _is_ for the best. It’s not going to feel that way for quite some time, though.

They end up in a Thai place a few blocks over from Juilliard, just talking about stuff like how the semester is going and what is going to happen to Chastity’s career when she graduates and, whatever. _Friend stuff_.

It’s weird, because somewhere over the next hour, Santana realizes that she actually _likes_ Chastity.

“We should stop hooking up,” she says, when they’ve called for the bill.

Chastity gives her a small smile. “What, am I not doing it for you anymore now that you’ve heard me speak?”

Santana rolls her eyes. “I just think we could make--you know, good friends.”

“Hmm,” Chastity says, tilting her head.

“I mean, not to be like, rude about it--but I can get sex anywhere,” Santana says, digging into her pocket for a twenty and dropping it on the table. “People I actually fucking _like_? One in a million, or something.”

Chastity folds her hands under her chin and stares at her for a little longer. “Right.”

Santana blinks at her. “What?”

“Well,” Chastity says, leaning back in her chair and dropping her napkin onto the table, “rumor has it you almost got with Rachel last week. I can’t say that there’s not a betting pool on that happening running, but we honestly thought you were too big of a coward to try anything this year.”

Santana feels a wave of annoyance rise up. “I didn’t _try_ anything. I was drunk, and _someone_ thought it was necessary to point out to me that she’s hot.”

“Okay,” Chastity says, easily enough.

“I--are people seriously talking about this?” Santana says, frowning.

“Well, sure. You guys are great together, and Rachel’s amazing.”

“We’re great together as _friends_. Honestly, what the fuck is wrong with people? This is the second time in like four months that someone has said that there is something going on there, and I think all of you need to look up the word ‘friendship’ in the dictionary before I fucking beat it into you.”

Chastity blinks. “Wow, you have some interesting anger bottled up, don’t you.”

“It’s--I’m _not angry_ ,” Santana snaps. “Is it too much to ask for everyone to stop trying to set me up with my straight roommate?”

Chastity laughs. “Straight?”

“Yeah, like, forget her kissing some chick at your fucking party. She’s like a board, okay? Trust me, there aren’t issues of denial here; she has two _gay dads_. She’d know, if she was.”

“Hm. And I suppose her heterosexuality also explains why she’s asked me more than once what it’s like to have sex with girls, right?” Chastity says, raising her eyebrows.

“She’s just _curious_. She’s a fucking know-it-all. Of course she’s curious.”

“And that’s why God invented the internet, Santana. Not conversations with a girl that your roommate is sleeping with.”

There isn’t much of a counter-argument to that.

“I’m--just forget it. You know what? Maybe we _won’t_ be friends. Keep the fucking change,” Santana says, pushing away from the table and getting out of the restaurant as quickly as she can.

When she hits the pavement, the grime of the city hits her harder than it ever has before, and that’s the only reason why she suddenly feels like she can’t breathe at all.

*

She literally hides in the library for almost the entire rest of the day, because she’s pretty sure Chastity will have stopped by to apologize (as she fucking well should have) and she’s just not in the mood.

Rachel finally texts her at 12:30, all _I have some really cold dinner here for you...._ and Santana sighs, gathers up her shit, and goes home.

It’s not _Rachel’s_ fault that everyone around them is going insane.

*

They’re working their way through _Weeds_ now, which Rachel finds kind of scandalous and Santana just watches because Mary Louise Parker is like the MILF of all MILFs, but whatever.

Sometimes, it _is_ actually funny, and the rest of the time it’s just unbelievable and easy to watch.

“Did you break it off with Chas?” Rachel asks, when the credits on the third episode of the second season roll.

“Yeah. She call you?” Santana asks, without looking away from the television.

“No, she stopped by and picked up--some of her things. Clothing, I think,” Rachel says, softly.

Her hand inches across the sofa a moment later, and when it reaches Santana’s wrist, Rachel squeezes gently.

“It was my call.”

“I know. That doesn’t mean it can’t still hurt,” Rachel says.

Santana sighs. “I wasn’t _dating_ her.”

“Okay, Santana,” Rachel says, pulling her hand away and knocking the off button on the remote.

She’s left more or less on her own in the dark living room, wondering why she’s left feeling like a dick for ending something that never really started to begin with.

*

Things that are unfair:

Santana’s had a really fucked up week, yet _Rachel_ is the one getting completely trashed at this party that one of Mel’s friends from NYU is throwing in celebration of some women’s liberation day in Kenya or something.

There are all sorts of exotic fruity punches and Rachel is just such a fucking noob about drinking; she comments on how great the red stuff tastes and starts drinking it like it’s free refill Coke at the movies, or something. By the time Santana’s done saying hi to all her friends, Rachel’s already on her third cup, and with a sigh, she accepts that it’s _her_ turn to play good friend tonight.

Whatever. They’re there for Rachel’s sake anyway. It’s not even that she doesn’t _like_ parties, but she doesn’t need to go to them to be among the people or to hook up or anything. After that thing at Chastity’s two weeks ago--well.

Maybe it’s for the best that she’s sober.

Either way, a few girls are looking at her from across the room, and she smirks at one of them, noting with a bit of pleasure that it gets an immediate reaction. She might be in a shitty mood, but even so--she’s still got it.

She contemplates getting a number briefly; then goes and gets it, in record time, but when she’s pocketing it, she realizes that Rachel has somehow managed to go missing in the world’s fucking most cramped apartment.

“Hey, have you seen Rach?” she asks Erin, who grins at her sloppily and points at one of the bedrooms. “Who _with_?”

“Kevin. You know, Candice’s brother’s friend from Columbia Law.”

Yeah. Santana knows. The guy made a pass at her last semester at some pre-law shindig over in NoHo, and then talked shit about her when she turned him down for the rest of the evening. Several alarm bells go off in her head, even though Rachel has a rape alarm and like, whatever, is wearing massive heels that could amputate anyone's down south area--but none of that will help with _drunk_ Rachel who is also _horny_ Rachel, as they all learned in high school.

“Shit,” Santana says, even as Kelly raises her eyebrows. “She’s like, way on the rebound, and that guy is a jackass. I’m going to--”

“Santana to the rescue,” Candice drawls, slinging an arm around her shoulder. “That’s deliciously butch. You know, if I ever wanted to have a gay experience--”

“Shut up,” Santana says, shrugging the arm away, and muscling her way through the crowd to the bedroom door in question.

She hesitates, there, because depending on how quickly she gets in there, this could already be the most awkward thing that’s going to happen to _either_ of them, ever, but--there’s moving on from Sam and then there’s moving on when incredibly tanked with some guy who doesn’t care about her _at all_.

She blows out her breath and then elbows the door open, and is faced with Rachel’s leg--all fifteen million inches of it-- wrapped around some guy’s waist, her shirt half off one shoulder, and her head tipped back against the wall.

“What--shit,” she says, covering her eyes, and then uncovering them again, because they can’t even really hear her over the rest of the party. “Rach--what are you doing?”

“Making out,” Rachel says, brightly, and Santana watches as her eyes focus. “Hey, how did you get here?”

“Do you mind?” Jackass Friend of Candice’s Brother says, not even turning around. “We’re sort of in the middle of something.”

“Yeah, I see she's in the middle of being incredibly _wasted_ ,” Santana says, watching as Rachel’s head sort of lolls again, and--ugh.

“You’re fine, aren’t you, baby,” the guy mumbles, and Rachel laughs and says, “Yup!”

Rachel Berry, when sober, does _not_ say ‘yup!’. Santana breathes in deeply and then says, “If you don’t get your hands off my fucking girlfriend in about two seconds I am breaking your nuts in half.”

That has _some_ effect, and Jackass steps back, letting Rachel sort of fall over against the wall. He raises his hands and says, “Sorry, okay. She didn’t say anything.”

“She’s shy,” Santana grits out between her teeth. “And I’m--very possessive. So you might want to get the fuck out of here.”

He just sort of nods and then, moving in a wide circle around her, heads to the door.

Santana closes the door and locks it because Rachel is like, essentially flashing the entire party in a heap right now, and she abstractly thinks that that bra is super cute, but not really the point, because Rachel’s looking at her wide eyes that are rapidly filling with tears.

“Why would you take him away from me?” she says, her voice trembling.

“Oh, sweet Jesus,” Santana says, and crosses the room, sliding down the wall next to Rachel and pulling her into a hug. “Just so we’re clear, I am fucking mocking you for this forever, but you’ll thank me for it anyway.”

“He was so nice. He smelled like--like--” Rachel slurs, and then hiccups. “You’re not fluent in sign language, are you?”

“No, I’m not,” Santana says, trying not to laugh.

“Well you should be, because then you could make better signs. And I really want a burrito right now, so--why are there no burritos at this party?”

Santana sighs and runs her hands through Rachel’s hair. “Don’t try to think right now, okay? It will only hurt you.”

“Okay,” Rachel says, meekly, before her head tips over onto Santana’s shoulder. “I love you, you know.”

“Yeah, I love you too,” Santana says, and starts a mental throw-up timer, because this is reminding her a _lot_ of that party at Puck’s a few years ago.

*

Rachel apologizes a record 47 times the next day.

Santana ends up leaving the apartment after that and gets her some chocolate, because, _good_ God.

When apology number 48 looks like it’s about to come, she rolls her eyes and says, “Rachel: _shut up already_. I’d rather see you toss your cookies on my shoes than have you do something you really regret. So stop fucking apologizing, and eat your chocolate.”

Rachel shuts up at that point, and Santana puts on _Singing in the Rain_ because it’s Rachel’s go-to ‘I’m randomly emotional’ movie, and it feels like she’s having one of those days.

Plus, it’s one of like three musicals Rachel owns that aren’t totally lame _and_ don’t make Santana cry, so whatever.

*

When her mom shows up with a box of her shit a few days later, saying, “Quinn packed this for you”, Santana suddenly misses Lima so badly that it feels her entire chest is going to give out with the feeling.

“So--the house?”

“On the market. It’s just ridiculously large for just the one of us, and--” Her mom sighs and shakes her head. “I have no reason to stay in Lima anymore. Not with you here, and Quinn over in Columbus, and--”

“What are we going to do on holidays?” Santana asks, a little quietly. “I mean, when you know what you’re going to do?”

“I’ve accepted a new post, in Pittsburgh. And--we’ll help Quinn make the trip, okay? I know she’s not your sister, and she’s not my daughter, but she’s family.”

It’s ridiculous to be crying _again,_ because what’s happening to their Christmas vacation is so not the biggest issue at hand here--she can’t even think about how this is going to screw her student loan situation for next year, but somehow, that’s what’s really hurting right now.

All she can think is, _but what about everyone else who spends Christmas in Lima_?

Her mom says, “Oh, mija” and pulls her into a hug, and really, it’s been years since she’s felt this small and out of control.

She wishes Quinn were around, even though her mom’s being pretty great right now. She wishes Quinn was there, so they could be ridiculous about this together.

“It will be a better drive for Sam. He--he can come, right?” Santana asks, after a moment, when she thinks her voice won’t crack on it.

“Of course,” her mother says, with a small smile. “Maybe, if we’re lucky, he and Quinn--”

“Oh, don’t tempt fate like that,” Santana says, with a small laugh, wiping at her eyes. “Quinn’s way too mean for him.”

Before her mother can protest that, and she looks like she’s going to, Rachel’s keys sound in the door and it’s pushed open. She’s carrying like five bags and her head is barely even visible, and then she drops all of them and gives Santana’s mom a really big hug.

“Oh, Maria, I’m so sorry. I hate him! Do I hate him? Is that appropriate?”

Santana and her mother both start laughing and Rachel looks a little flustered, before biting her lip and saying, “I normally control my carbohydrate intake severely, but I thought we would have something really fattening tonight, just because--well. To hell with men, am I right?”

“Preaching to the choir, here,” Santana says.

“You girls,” her mom says, shaking her head, and heading over to the bathroom to fix her make-up while mumbling in Spanish.

Rachel sits down in the space she vacates, and pulls on Santana’s waist. “C’mere. You look like you need a hug, and I promise I won’t tell anyone about what a softy you are.”

“I’m fine,” Santana protests, grumpily, but settles into it anyway.

“Your mom’s a very strong, very capable woman. And your dad’s kind of a tool, dude,” Rachel says, in her best Puck imitation, which is actually pretty good, so Santana chuckles. “Seriously, Santana. She’ll find someone. Someone who appreciates her, and legitimately makes her feel happy. Someone who gives her a reason to come home at night. You know?”

Santana sighs and says, “Yeah, I know.”

There’s not much else to say.

Christmas is going to be messed up and a little depressing, this year, but not a single Christmas they’ve had since sophomore year has turned out anything like she’s expected.

Maybe this will be better than it sounds, too.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Amy, Ashleigh, Brooke and Robin for holding my hand through this entire story, but specifically this chapter. It has been mostly written for about a month and a half now and it's safe to say that this is a pretty pivotal part of the story, so I've been very grateful for their positive noises.
> 
> Thank you all so much for your ongoing support, and for sticking with this story despite it not resulting in the most obvious pairing. This is the end of BWC, but not the end of the series, don't worry.

5.

So.

Her parents are getting divorced, and the world isn’t actually ending.

The house in Lima is up for sale for a ridiculous amount of money; Quinn just says, “Lima Heights Adjacent, my ass” when they talk about it over the phone a few days later.

She hasn’t even talked to her dad about it, because--well, when the fuck has she ever talked to her dad about anything? She’ll hear from his lawyer about how child support and her college degree are going to be continued eventually, and maybe he’ll send her an e-card on her birthday. It’s ridiculous to be upset about it, because it’s not like anything has _changed_ , on that front.

Black Berry calls her a week after her mom’s been to visit and says he’s just calling to ask how they’re doing financially, which is a load of crap if she’s ever heard one.

It does raise one issue, however.

“Well, with Rachel in Chicago for all of July and August, I just wanted to make sure that you knew that we’d be forwarding the rent straight to you and you don’t have to worry about--” he says, and Santana says, “Wait, what?”

It’s silent on the line for a moment.

“She hasn’t told you.”

“No, she--what?” Santana repeats, before getting off the couch and walking over to Rachel’s room, which is of course empty, because they never spend time in their rooms anyway. The living room is cramped enough. “What’s in Chicago?”

“She’s doing some summer theater program there. We found out about it through Shelby, who--”

“Okay, I’m sorry, hold up,” Santana says, sinking down onto the sofa again. “You’re talking to _Shelby_.”

“We’ve never not talked to Shelby, Santana,” Black Berry says, quietly. “It was always her decision if she wanted to be more actively involved in Rachel’s life once Rachel turned eighteen, and now--”

“What a _bitch_ ,” Santana spits out. “What, now that she has her own fucking child she can spend two seconds of her life thinking about Rachel as well?”

Black Berry clears his throat. “ _The point_ is that Shelby very graciously let us know when one of her old friends from New York started a summer acting school for college students in Chicago, and Rachel applied for it about three weeks ago.”

“Over Spring Break,” Santana says, because that just about works out. “And she still hasn’t told me.”

Black Berry sighs deeply. “... oops?”

Santana chuckles and then says, “Not cool,” but it’s not really his fault.

She spends most of the day waiting for Rachel to get home, _sure_ she’s going to just irately yell, “Were you ever going to tell me?” at her, but when Rachel does finally walk in, with her make-up running down her face and a tear in her work blouse, all that comes out is, “Fuck, are you okay?”

“I’m fine--altercation with a drunk guy on the subway,” she says, with a deep sigh. “He didn’t hurt me, I just cried from the shock of actually having to use my rape whistle, which, by the way, you are now going to start carrying _everywhere_ you go.”

Santana says nothing, and then just gets off the couch and gingerly fingers the rip in Rachel’s shirt. “You’re _sure_ \--”

“Yeah,” Rachel says, moving past her and into the bathroom without saying another word.

Santana ends up just leaving a post-it on her desk saying _were you ever going to tell me about Chicago_ , because whatever, it matters, but Rachel can bring it up when she wants to.

*

“I’m sorry,” Rachel says, appearing in the doorway early the next morning.

Santana blinks at her twice and then sits up in bed. “About?”

“Chicago. I’ve been trying to think of a way to bring it up, and Quinn and I have been seeing if she can maybe stay here in my place, when I’m gone,” Rachel says. Santana watches as her fingers flex and unflex against the hem of her workout shorts, and pats the edge of her bed.

“C’mere.”

“I’m not going to sit there just so you have the opportunity to push me off.”

Santana yawns and runs a hand through her hair. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m much more upset about the idea of you and Quinn talking to each other than this Chicago thing.”

Rachel smiles and sits down at the foot of the bed. “We get along fine, as long as we restrict ourselves to talking about you.”

Santana snorts without meaning to. “Yeah, right.”

“What?”

Shit. _This_ is why she doesn’t have conversations with anyone before coffee. “I just--nevermind.”

Rachel frowns at her. “No, what?”

Santana sighs. “The morning after that party. You two were kind of, I don’t know, screaming your heads off at each other. … I was hungover, not _dead_.”

“Oh,” Rachel says, looking down at her hands, where they’re picking at Santana’s duvet. “That would be the exception to the rule.”

“Yeah,” Santana says.

They sit silently for a moment and then Santana sighs. “So what’s this acting program thing?”

Rachel smiles. “You don’t actually care.”

“No, not even a little,” Santana agrees, before lying back down. “But you’re going to tell me anyway.”

*

The semester passes in a blur, and before she knows it, it’s time for finals.

She spends days upon days in the library, revising and planning out essays, before returning home in the evenings, heating up some leftovers from the weekend, and then continuing her studying at home. Most nights, she doesn’t even notice Rachel’s backuntil a fresh cup of coffee appears next to her on her desk and Rachel leans over her shoulder to check on her word count.

“I hate college. Don’t ever go,” Santana says, on the fourth night of studying past midnight in a row, and Rachel just laughs and says, “I’ll trade you that essay for the seven guys who tried to grab my butt today.”

“In the _bakery_?”

“I know, right,” Rachel calls, from the bathroom, and Santana laughs while pinching the bridge of her nose.

All this studying is coming with some unfortunate side-effects, such as the dead certainty that her eyesight is going down the drain, but whatever. Glasses are for nerds, and she can hang on until the summer to experiment with looking like one.

*

She’s in the middle of proofreading her literature review for Feminist Texts, on a Friday night of all things, when the front door unlocks and Rachel comes in.

She doesn’t even look around the corner towards the living room, just stretches and waits for coffee to magically reach her. Except it then doesn’t, and instead of hearing Rachel, she hears _some guy_ asking if there’s anyone else home.

“Yeah, my roommate’s here, and probably studying,” Rachel says, softly. “We need to be quiet.”

 _Holy shit, this is awkward_ , Santana thinks, and wonders if it would make it better or worse if she swung her door shut. Better: because, no visual to go with what is clearly the sound of kissing--but then worse, because it’s just fucking weird to close a door without saying hello.

The fact that she doesn’t _want_ to say hello, not even a little, settles uncomfortably in her chest, and she clutches the sides of her desk chair while all of her muscles tense.

Somewhere outside, on the way to her bedroom ( _hopefully_ ), Rachel moans.

“Kill me now,” Santana mumbles, before digging her iPod out of her purse and putting it on shuffle as quickly as she can.

That helps, a little, except that her concentration is still shot, she’s missing her midnight coffee, and there’s this niggling feeling of extreme fucking horror that is just like, _I’ve been doing this to Rachel for most of this year Shit_.

When it becomes clear that she’s not going to be able to ignore what’s going on at all, because they rearranged Rachel’s room over Easter and apparently pushed her bed a little too close to the wall, she actually starts feeling _nauseous_.

The rhythm of that ape fucking Rachel is really not matching up to Alanis, and after about thirty seconds of feeling her stomach contents slowly rise up, she shrugs into her jacket and heads out for a nighttime walk.

*

Rachel’s alone and on the couch with some ice cream when she gets back, which isn’t even that surprising.

Maybe she took a two hour long walk. Maybe she even angrily bought a pack of cigarettes and maybe she smoked five of them while sitting on a bench in that scary park where all the hobos congregate. (It’s fine. She has her fucking _pink and bedazzled_ rape whistle now.)

“Hey, I thought you were in when I got home,” Rachel says, nodding at a second spoon lying on the table.

“I was. I left,” Santana says, shortly, before flopping down on the couch next to her.

Rachel gives her a questioning look, and Santana finally just purses her lips and says, “We need to move your bed forward an inch. If you’re going to do that again.”

She doesn’t look over at Rachel until Rachel’s spoon clatters onto the floor, loudly.

“What?”

“Do _what_ again?” Rachel asks, in a really tight voice.

“I’m--okay, I don’t need to _hear_ you have sex, okay?” Santana says, trying not to cringe. “It’s super fucking distracting. I was trying to read about socio-legal feminism in the 1980s and meanwhile, next door--”

“I would advise you to _not_ say anything crass right now,” Rachel says, warningly.

“What, because it’s not _okay_ for me to point out that you going at it like a hyena is kind of cramping my exam prep?”

Rachel visibly bristles and then snaps, “Because it’s not okay for you to say something when I’ve brought _one person home_ since Christmas, and I have to listen to you fuck your way through your veritable harem of girls _every single week_ of my life.”

Santana’s breath catches in her throat, and then she glares at Rachel. “Yeah, okay, so if that bothers you as much as this bothered me, how the hell is _now_ the first time I’m hearing about it?”

“Because it’s _our_ apartment, and you can do what you want. It would just be nice if that same courtesy was extended to me,” Rachel bites out, bending down to pick up her spoon.

Santana chews on her lip. “Okay.”

“God, what is wrong with you sometimes?” Rachel complains, before jerkily putting the ice cream back on the table in front of them and pulling her knees up to her chest.

“Who was he, anyway?” Santana asks, a good five minutes later, when Rachel looks a little less pissed.

“Nobody important.”

“Oh,” Santana says.

It feels like the end of the discussion, even though some part of her is _dying_ to know since when does Rachel have one night stands, but the look on her face is still not all that inviting.

“Was it--nice?” Santana asks, finally, when there doesn’t seem to be anything else to say.

Rachel makes a noise and rolls her eyes before disappearing into her bedroom.

There is just _no winning_ with girls sometimes, Santana thinks, before finishing the ice cream.

*

Even though things at home are a little--weird, to say the least, she studies like crazy and kicks ass on all of her exams and end-of-term essays; to the point where she’s for once actually _proud_ to be telling her mom how she did, and the several hundred dollars that pile their way into her checking account actually feel like a sign of love rather than a pay-off.

Her Studies In U.S. Imperialism TA puts a note on the return copy of her essay to stop by Professor Ocampo’s office. She dismisses any wariness she feels at the request, because she got a fucking 99% on the final, and is proven correct when her TA--Ashley--and her professor recruit her into some sort of cross-cultural comparative analysis book project they’re working on in the summer.

It’s an honor, and better yet, it _pays_ , so there’s one less thing to worry about with Rachel being gone for a few months. Even if Quinn can’t come, she can split the difference.

Rachel somehow gets someone--probably Chastity, but Santana’s not going to ask--to buy Santana a huge bottle of whiskey when she’s got all her results in, and then even gamely drinks half a glass of it herself before pointing out that alcohol does not need to be disgusting.

“We’re cool, right?” Santana asks, when that one half glass goes straight to Rachel’s brain and she seems to be open to an actual conversation for the first time in weeks. (It doesn’t hurt that Santana also finally has the time for one, but okay.)

“Yeah, of course. You’re Santana, and I’m Rachel,” Rachel says, before patting her on the top of her head and heading to the kitchen to prepare a plate of French cheeses and crackers.

It reminds her of that really, really stupid dinner at Kurt’s a few years ago, and she looks over at Rachel to pass on the anecdote--”Remember when Finn went all psycho stalker on you and Kurt and Blaine ate crackers like a pair of demented hamsters?”--but the words sort of lodge in her throat, because Rachel’s wearing tiny shorts and stretching onto her toes for a cutting board, and--

She set herself a rule once, about drinking around Rachel. Apparently an additional year of seeing her in a wide variety of stages of undress hasn’t really helped with her tolerance for seeing Rachel’s legs when she’s _drunk_ , at all, and she snaps her head back to the television-- _It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia,_ by Puck’s recommendation--before she actually starts _staring_.

*

She calls Puck later that night.

Just because: it’s her turn to call, and she’s just about tipsy enough to say what she wants to, so, and it’s not like there’s anyone else she can _possibly_ put this question to. (Sam would probably be less of a dick about it, but Sam is not an option for, holy shit, so many reasons.)

“You calling to brag about your conquests?” he asks, before yelling something that’s clearly geared at a video game of some kind. She thinks she hears Finn in the background, but can’t actually remember what Finn sounds like, so maybe not.

“No, just--okay. Can we actually like, talk, or whatever?”

The sound in the background of wherever Puck is dims, and he says, “Sure. Ask Quinn, I’m all mature and shit now.”

“No you’re not,” Santana says, plucking at the buttons on her shirt and staring at the ceiling.

“Well, no, maybe I’m not, but I’m much better at faking that shit. What’s up?”

Santana gnaws on her lip for a moment and then says, “Have you ever like, thought someone was hot, but it’s like someone that you really _shouldn’t_ think was hot?”

Puck’s silent for a few seconds and then says, “Uh, yeah. I think most of you refer to that time of my life as Babygate, dude.”

“Right, so, how do you make it stop?”

Puck laughs. “You fuck them. And then you get over it.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Look, I wanted to nail Quinn since I was like, fourteen or whatever, so I _did_ , and then everything went to shit. Didn’t think she was so hot anymore when she was 6 months pregnant, is all I’m saying.”

Santana rolls her eyes. “This is legitimately the worst advice you’ve ever given me, and you also once suggested to me that I could turn a bottle of turpentine into a bong if I really wanted to.”

“That was factually accurate advice, dude, I read about it on 4Chan.”

Santana laughs, unwillingly. “Okay, well, thanks for fucking _dick,_ as always, Puck.”

“Hey, what’s this about?”

“Nothing, just--I can’t stop thinking about the librarian at my college, it’s fucking crazy,” Santana mumbles, because like _hell_ she’s going to say what it’s actually about. If she does that, it becomes a real thing. And really--

“Librarians are hot, dude. It’s a law of nature. Don’t fight it; just tap it.”

It’s seriously stupid advice, but then she called a seriously stupid source to _get it_ , so whatever.

She drinks another glass of whiskey and then promptly falls asleep.

*

Kurt and Blaine breeze into their apartment like two of those homos from Queer Eye a few days later, all ooh-ing and ah-ing at Santana’s exquisite color choices, and then wincing at the complete lack of space and the mutually acknowledged thin walls.

Rachel drags Kurt down to Broadway to show him around, and Blaine is more interested in seeing Yankee Stadium, so Santana heads to the Bronx with him and honestly, it’s like hanging out with a version of Sam she knows slightly less well.

“I’m proud of you,” Blaine says, randomly, his hands tucked into his shorts and his hair slightly less gelled than normal. “You’ve come a long way since we first had coffee with you; you know, when you were freaking out about the idea that you might like girls.”

“Yeah, well,” Santana says, shrugging and kicking at a rock on the pavement. “I just needed some time. It’s obviously not actually that big a deal.”

Blaine smiles and says, “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re an inspiration to a lot of people.”

“Oh my God, I forgot how fucking relentlessly sincere you are. It’s still gross, by the way,” Santana says, bumping into his side.

He grins. “Kurt says that if the idea didn’t make him queasy, he’d have to admit that he basically ended up with the male version of your roommate.”

Santana opens her mouth to either laugh or protest that statement, but it’s _true_ , which is why laughter wins in the end.

“I know, right?” Blaine says, linking their arms together, and then tells a hilarious story about how Kurt accidentally ended up with a little chihuahua after winning some drag contest in a gay bar.

*

Rachel looks like she’s been crying when they get back to the apartment, and Kurt is leaning forward on the armchair, one hand on her knee.

“Okay, for real though, you go to the theater district _every day_. Surely it’s not still this touching?” Santana says, blithely, because she has no real idea what is going on.

Kurt shoots her a look that says, _shut up_ , but Rachel just offers a bleary smile and says, “Sorry. Just--girl talk. … oh, Kurt, I’m so sorry; calling it girl talk essentializes you.”

“No, that’s fine,” Kurt says, before getting up and giving Santana an appraising look. “Time for us to spend some time together. I hear there’s excellent Chinese a few blocks from here. We should buy some.”

“Okay,” Santana says, letting Kurt steer her out of the apartment, though she does manage to give Rachel one more concerned look.

Rachel just shakes her head and mouths, _I’m okay_ , though, so. Maybe she’s reading too much into her tears. Rachel _is_ a diva, after all.

*

“What was that about?” Santana says, when Kurt’s stayed oddly silent on the walk over. He looks smashing, in his sailor-style shirt and his black skinny jeans and jaunty denim hat, but otherwise just looks a little out of it.

“What? Oh. Nothing. Rachel’s just going through some things,” Kurt says, absently.

“Why is she telling you about it? I _live_ with her,” Santana says, trying to make that sound less whiny than it is.

“She needed a fresh set of eyes on a situation,” Kurt says, before shooting Santana a skeptical look. “Not to mention, you’re not exactly a champion when it comes to matters of the heart.”

“The--what? What the hell matters of the heart does Rachel have?” Santana frowns after a second. “Is she having second thoughts about Sam?”

Kurt sighs. “Yeah. Many. So, you know. Just let it go. If she wants to talk to you about it, she will.”

It niggles at Santana that Rachel apparently _doesn’t_ the entire time they wait for their order to get prepped, and then a little longer until they’re back in the apartment; there, they walk in on Rachel and Blaine singing _Don’t You Want Me_ together, and Kurt groans, “Oh God, not _again_ ”, which makes Santana laugh and Rachel stick her tongue out.

The night’s a lot more pleasant after that.

*

The boys go back later that weekend, because Kurt’s friend James--who’s watching the chihuahua--can only watch the dog for so long, and their sofa bed isn’t exactly the world’s most comfortable place to sleep.

Rachel and Santana watch from Santana’s bedroom window as they amble back towards the subway and then Penn Station together, and then Rachel sighs and says, “Don’t you ever wish that all of our friends had come to study in New York?”

“Only all the time,” Santana says, putting a hand on the small of Rachel’s back, and kneading it gently. “But, you know, Quinn’s coming up, at the end of next year, so that’ll be cool.”

“What’s going to happen to us, then?” Rachel asks, suddenly, and Santana frowns at her; her hand falls away of its own volition, almost.

“I don’t know. I guess I just always figured--we’d get a bigger place, for the three of us.”

Rachel’s smile is faint. “That’s sweet.”

“What is?”

“The fact that you actually think it’s _ever_ going to be possible--you, me and Quinn in the same apartment.”

Santana blinks uncomprehendingly. “Well, of course it is. I mean, you two get along now, don’t you?”

“Sure. For a few days at a time. But I assure you, I don’t want to live with her, and she _doesn’t_ want to live with me.”

Santana feels herself deflate on the spot, when Rachel takes a step back, and then she says, “Would you at least be willing to _try_?”

Rachel pauses in the doorway to Santana’s bedroom and says, without turning around, “I’d try a lot of things, but I refuse to live with someone who set out to make my life a living hell for years on end, and has _never_ apologized for it, just because it would make _you_ feel good.”

Santana watches her go back to her own room, the door clicking shut behind her softly, and wonders which of them she’d choose, if it came down to it.

It’s a horrible thought.

*

June is sweltering, and Rachel’s time on the subway to and from work is a nightmare.

Santana can do most of her work from home and only has to go to college about once a week to pick up some more transcripts to spell-check, but Rachel comes home bitching about tourists not standing on the right and taking forever to get on the platform every single night.

The audition season is in full flight, and whenever she can, Santana _does_ go along to take notes, but even Rachel at some point says, “There’s too many long shots, it’s a waste of your time.”

Instead, she goes back to what she’s used to doing: preparing dinners for Rachel that can be quickly heated up after long days, and making her some tea with honey to drink just to give her voice a chance to recover from all the various monologues and pieces she’s preparing.

Somehow, even though they’re seeing about as much of each other as they always have, it feels like Rachel is pulling away a little; but maybe that’s just lingering thoughts in her head about what the hell she’s going to do next year, when Quinn will pack up her entire life yet again in the hopes that she can settle down somewhere.

It would make her feel like shit if she told _either_ of them no, but apparently she’s going to have to, eventually.

*

Then, without warning, everything completely falls apart.

*

The look on Rachel’s face is indescribable. Santana has seen her hurt--it feels distant now, but she knows she spent a good four years _causing_ Rachel to look hurt--but this is more than that, somehow. Devastated doesn’t even cover it.

Rachel looks defeated.

“Hey,” Santana says, finally, putting what’s left of the pizza on the coffee table with a slow lean forward. She’s almost afraid to move too fast, because Rachel’s still just standing there, the door swinging shut behind her slowly. “Rach, what’s--”

“Not pretty enough,” Rachel says, dully. She starts plucking open the buttons to her coat with shaky fingers, and lets her bag slide off her shoulder. “A great singer, but not pretty enough.”

“What the _fuck_?” Santana’s off the couch in about two seconds; she knows she looks like a bad imitation of the Karate Kid with the way her hands immediately clench into fists, but she can’t really help it. “Who the fuck told you that?”

“The casting director,” Rachel says. She shrugs out of her coat and folds it over her arm, twice, then puts it on the box that they’re still using as a coat rack, months after moving in. “It’s okay. At least he …” She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and then directs a look at Santana that breaks her heart. “At least he didn’t come out and say that I need a nose job if I’m ever going to work in this city. The last CD wasn’t so kind.”

“What’s his fucking name?” Santana asks, much more calmly than she feels. “I’ll call Puck, and--”

“Santana...” Rachel says, in this tiny voice. Her eyes seem too large for her face all of a sudden, and she leans heavily against the bookcase--full of books on feminism and female empowerment and a bunch of other shit that clearly doesn’t exist at all in the real world. “Rejection is a part of the job, and--”

“That’s not _rejection_. They could’ve just fucking told you that you weren’t right for the role, they didn’t have to... Jesus Christ.”

They stand silently for another long moment and then Santana sits back down on the sofa, because Rachel _doesn’t_ look like she wants a hug, and she doesn’t really fucking know what else she can do.

“It’s not the first time someone’s called me ugly. I really--” Rachel laughs wryly, but that laugh ends in a sob. “I should be used to it by now. Quinn, Jesse... even _Finn_. Oh, and let’s not forget my best friend and roommate, who used to draw obscene pictures of me with _boy_ parts in the bathroom at McKinley.”

Santana can’t help but look away and feel a rush of shame, because all that childish shit that _she_ left behind ages ago... she’s known, of course, that it didn’t get left behind with Rachel. But hearing it out loud...

After a moment, Rachel adds, “The only person who has _never_ made me feel awful about myself is Sam, and look what I did to him.”

“You wanted more, remember,” Santana points out, gently.

“Well, maybe I _shouldn’t have_.” Rachel shakes her head and glances at herself in the hallway mirror for just a second; when she actually winces, Santana feels like _she_ gets slapped in the face. “Maybe I _should_ have just moved to Philadelphia to be with him, and gotten a degree in English or music or something else that would’ve led to a teaching job, and maybe I should just give up on this--this fucking _stupid_ fantasy that is clearly _never_ going to happen.”

Santana looks at her for a long moment. “That life would’ve killed you.”

“And you think this isn’t killing me?” Rachel asks, with a tremor in her voice that Santana honestly wishes she couldn’t hear.

“It’s just … I don’t know, you’re the one who always says it’s part of the business. And someone is eventually going to see past--God, there’s nothing fucking _wrong_ with your nose, okay? And there’s nothing wrong with the rest of you either--”

“Well of _course_ there is,” Rachel cuts her off, and Santana feels herself choke up when Rachel actually starts crying. “I almost _threw_ myself at Jesse, _twice_ , and he just laughed at me. Like it’s _hilarious_ that I could think that he would ever really want me. It wasn’t ever any different with Finn, you know; he never stopped reminding me that there was such a _massive_ difference between us that I really should cut him a break for wanting to be popular.”

“Rachel, come on, you know you were way too good for both of them. They’re just dumb assholes,” Santana says, feeling incredibly helpless.

Rachel stares at her with shiny, wet eyes, before spitting out, “Well, if that’s what _they_ are, what does that make _you_?”

The question echoes around their still-too-empty apartment for what feels like an age.

“I’m … what?” Santana asks, blinking rapidly, but Rachel’s not looking away, not even when she wipes her eyes with her sleeve and sniffs, hard.

“You’ve slept with almost our entire high school, and you’re indiscriminately working your way through the Barnard women’s study program, and I _know_ that you’ve been with several of the girls in my theater classes as well, okay? Everyone talks about...” Rachel lets out another one of those hoarse chuckles and then rolls her eyes. “You don’t even really have a type. You just like _pretty_ _girls_.”

“I didn’t realize that was a bad thing,” Santana says, carefully, because this conversation went into fucking unknown territory _really_ fast and Rachel still looks like she’s going to either stab something or just melt down. Santana doesn’t really know if she can deal with _either_ of those options.

“It’s not,” Rachel says, with a shudder. “Of course it’s not. It’s your life, but you know what? I’m _in_ it.”

“Of course you are, you’re--” Santana starts to say, but Rachel shakes her head.

“At least once every two weeks, I come across some girl I’ve never seen before in our kitchen in the morning. And I always say hello, and they always look like they’re just _now_ finding out that they’re engaging in some home-wrecking, so then I have to explain that I’m just your roommate, and that they shouldn’t take it personally if they don’t get a second chance with you, because you don’t _do_ relationships. Or anything other than one night stands.”

Santana winces, because _not this again_. “I’m sorry, God--I’ll stop having people over--”

“And all I can think when they leave, always looking dejected as hell, is, _hey, at least you got a first chance,_ ” Rachel finishes, abruptly, before angrily wiping at her eyes again.

Santana wishes she could rewind the clock maybe five minutes; wait for Rachel to come in the door again and be there to give her a hug, and say something fucking supportive (she’s been around enough supportive people now to _know_ how that shit works out) because then _this_ wouldn’t be happening.

“Rachel--what are you saying?” she finally asks, when Rachel won’t look away, tears still running down her face.

“You almost kissed me, that night. And for one stupid second, I actually thought--I actually _believed_ that someone like you could want someone like me. But--it was only because you were so _drunk_ that it didn’t even matter that it was just me there, wasn’t it?”

Every word that comes to her mind in response to that statement lodges in Santana’s throat, and all she can do is stare at Rachel.

It’s almost like she’s seeing her for the very first time.

“Rach,” she says, almost pleadingly, because this is _too much_. Two minutes ago, they were Rachel and Santana, and now they’re--she has _no_ idea, but her lungs ache, and something underneath them hurts even more.

Rachel finally averts her eyes, if only to grab her keys from the key bowl again. “It’s just really hard to believe sometimes that I’m _pretty enough_ for Broadway, when I’m clearly not even pretty enough for you.”

She’s out the door in less than two seconds after that, without her purse, and some part of Santana wants to run after her because it’s nighttime and she doesn’t have her rape whistle, but--

She just can’t. She just sits there, stupidly looking at the half-vegan pizza she ordered because she knew Rachel was going to be home early for a change, and feels like she really should have seen this coming somehow.

*

She calls Kurt. God knows she can’t call Quinn about this, so she calls Kurt.

“Santana, I’m running up against a fashion show deadline and my pin cushion went missing when Bruiser Junior ran off with it about half an hour ago, so unless this is an emergency--”

“Rachel is into me, isn’t she,” Santana says, flatly.

There’s a lot of crackling on the phone, and for a second she thinks the connection’s just gone fucked, but then Kurt comes back and breathlessly says, “Sorry. In some sort of horribly dramatic cliche, I just actually dropped the phone.”

“Kurt--did you _know_?”

He’s silent for just a little bit too long for the answer to that to be no.

“How _long_?”

“Let’s just say that it was a semi-instrumental part of her reasoning in breaking up with Sam. You can’t stay with someone if you have a very potent crush on your roommate,” Kurt says, softly.

“Shit,” Santana exhales, and really, she _does_ feel awful. For Sam, mostly, which--what is _going on?_

“She thought you wouldn’t believe her. You know, always had boyfriends, never even kissed a girl...” Kurt sighs deeply after a moment. “I _did_ tell her to just talk to you about it, but somehow I get the feeling that she sort of dropped a bomb on you and then ran off.”

“It wasn’t a classic diva storm-out, but yeah,” Santana says, and she’d laugh if it didn’t feel like her heart was shriveling up inside of her chest.

“So. What _are_ you going to do?” Kurt asks.

Bruiser Junior barks in the background, and Santana just drops her chin to her hand, pinches her eyes shut.

“I’ve _never_ even thought about--”

“Oh, don’t even, Santana. Of course you have,” Kurt cuts her off.

She doesn’t correct him, because it _is_ a lie.

Of course she’s thought about it, and hell, not _just_ in those moments where she’s just a little too drunk around Rachel’s unbelievably long legs.

The thought just got filed with _Quinn_ and _Brittany_ and _Puck_ and a lot of other things that belong back in Ohio. Mostly with _Brittany,_ actually, who taught her better than anyone that close friendships shouldn’t become … complicated.

“She thinks I think she’s ugly,” she says, when they’re both just silent for a few seconds.

“Gee, I wonder how she got _that_ idea. Maybe it was this little thing called high school,” Kurt says. She can almost hear him rolling his eyes. “I’m assuming she confessed as much to you and you did your best impression of a trout on dry land in response?”

“Kurt, why would she _ever_ think I still think she’s ugly, or that I even meant that shit back then. Just because I’m not screwing around with her … _God_ ,” Santana says, and then realizes she’s on the verge of tears again.

“Well, it seems like there’s a clear solution to the problem, at least,” Kurt says.

“And fuck up another friendship until I can barely even look at her? No, thank you.”

“ _Santana_. Rachel’s a big girl. She can take no for an answer, okay? Just be honest with her.”

”What, and we’re just going to forget about it? Yeah, right. _Hey, remember that time when I pointed out that even you thought I was too fugly to fuck? Those were some good laughs; pass the salt._ ”

“I don’t really know what else to tell you,” Kurt says. “Maybe Blaine--”

“No. Promise this stays between us. Fuck, Kurt, _nobody_ needs to know about this. Not until we’ve sorted shit out. Okay?”

She doesn’t need to say that she’s swearing him to secrecy for Rachel’s sake. He’s always been Team Rachel; even Rachel has laughingly said that in a divorce, she would definitely get to keep Kurt.

( _I’m not ready for that_ , Santana thinks unwillingly, and hangs up.)

*

Rachel doesn’t come home for a day.

Santana resists the urge to call every single one of their mutual friends because fuck only knows what kind of message _that_ would send out at this point; instead, she spends all night on their ratty old couch and wakes up at 6am with a massive crick in her neck.

She showers, but quickly, and then finishes the rest of that pizza she ordered yesterday, cold. The vegan half tastes like pickled cardboard, and even that fucking thought makes her choke up all over again.

(Things she tries _not_ to think about, even though it’s impossible not to think when she’s just sitting around, _waiting_ : Rachel breaking down about Juilliard; Rachel sitting down and talking to her about taking responsibility for her sexual actions; Rachel telling her she can do _better_ than what she is doing; Rachel and Sam, at that pool party, and the jealousy she’d felt at seeing them; Rachel in a two-piece; Rachel, happy and laughing, before their lives took another turn for the fucked up in New York.

Kissing Rachel, when it meant nothing. And then almost kissing Rachel because--because of _what_?

She’s so fucking stupid.)

It’s _not_ fucking fair that this is happening to her. She doesn’t have Quinn nearby anymore, and she never even really had Brittany, so this pretty much seals the deal on there being no God. He wouldn’t try to take her best fucking friend away from her three times in three years.

*

She wakes up at the door unlocking, and then looks at herself; over-sized t-shirt, sweat pants, and her hair’s probably a fucking tragedy from all this sleeping on the couch.

She’s not really sure why it _matters_ to her that she looks this fucking rough, but then when she takes a first look at Rachel, maybe it’s for the best. It evens them out, somehow, because Rachel looks like she hasn’t stopped crying in a day, and--Christ.

“I’m sorry I left, yesterday,” Rachel says, without looking at her. “It was immature and I should have stayed, to explain what I said.”

 _Fuck._ She’s wrong-footed immediately, because nowhere in any of her plans does Rachel get to make the first fucking apology, and it makes her cranky enough to not do _any_ of the things she was going to do. (Say it’s okay, apologize as well, _promise_ that Rachel is in fact very pretty and she’s crazy for thinking otherwise.)

“Yeah, I’m not really a fan of being told I’m the world’s most inconsiderate slut, but maybe you sticking around long enough for me to tell you you’re a _bitch_ would’ve made it better.”

Any further attempt at being casually cruel is wiped from her mind at the look Rachel gives her, which is so open that she sinks back into the couch. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“ _You_ know I don’t think you’re--fuck, Rachel,” she says, and then shakes her head. “I don’t know how to _do_ this.”

“It’s--can we just pretend it never happened?” Rachel asks, almost desperately.

“ _No_ , I can’t,” Santana says, slowly, before gesturing at the chair. “So--you know. Sit down. And we’ll _talk_ about this, because more than anything I just want you to fucking understand that I don’t think you’re _ugly_ and honestly, I never have, and I would fucking beat that director guy into a hospital for saying that shit about your nose.”

Rachel slips out of her coat and gingerly sits down in the chair, before glancing at the pizza; there’s one slice of vegan left, now, and Santana watches as Rachel’s eyes focus on it.

“It suits you,” she adds, when it’s clear that the rest of this conversation isn’t going to come from Rachel. (Which: really. Statistically it was very unlikely that she’d in fact _never_ shut up, but of all the times...) “Your nose, I mean. It suits your face. And your face is _fine_.”

Rachel’s smile wobbles into a small laugh. “ _Thanks_.”

Fine. It’s not like their friendship isn’t already floating dead in the water, so why not try honesty? Why not just _say_ what’s been running through her mind on and off since, if she’s honest, senior year?

“Rachel,” she says, in a much softer voice, until Rachel looks at her. “You have no idea how fucking hot you are. It’s part of what _makes_ you so hot.” She tempers it a second later with, “When you’re not talking, anyway.”

Her lips reflexively curl up into a smile, and--

\--damn, this is _still_ Rachel, who is having the exact same reaction as every other girl that she’s tried to pick up in the past year. Her pupils dilate, just for a moment, and her cheeks color before she looks away.

It’s _so_ fucking awkward.

“Shit,” Santana says, and rubs at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I know that probably felt like I was playing you, but--”

“No, actually,” Rachel says, picking at the lid of the pizza box. “It felt nice.”

Santana twists her hands into her t-shirt almost on instinct and then just decides to stop fucking stepping around this. “You should’ve just said something. Under _normal_ circumstances.”

“Why? So you could’ve told me under _normal_ circumstances that I need to get over having a crush on you? That you’re way out of my league, and I should just stop following you around?”

That shit sounds really familiar, and when Santana places it after a few seconds, she almost laughs. “Rach, you’re not _Alice Freeman._ ”

“I might as well be, as far as you’re concerned,” Rachel counters, glancing at her for a moment.

Jesus, she is not sorting this out well _at all._ It’s apparently going to take serious honesty for them to get past this, which is why after a moment Santana sighs and scoots forward, reaching for Rachel’s knee. “I am not fucking _doing_ this. You’re-- _look_ at you. I totally would. I’d be fucking crazy not to. Okay? I _would_ , if you weren’t my best friend.”

“I don’t see how that--”

“Because _Britt_ was my best friend, and--” Santana bites down on the inside of her cheek hard, because her grip on this conversation is way too fucking tenuous and Rachel doesn’t need her to crack about a three year old non-relationship right now. “I can’t lose you too, okay? I’m--I _need_ you in my life, and I’m not going to fucking gamble on that just because I sometimes wonder what you’d be like--”

That was the _wrong_ thing to say, because Rachel directs a look at her she’s never seen on her face before. It’s a look that belongs in _Chicago_ or something, and fuck, Santana’s breath actually catches in her throat at it. “Be like where?”

It’s the _worst_ fucking idea. It’s so fucking bad that she launches herself off the couch and walks into the kitchen just to get some distance, and _Jesus_ , she hasn’t actually let herself think that Rachel was hot since that pool party at Kurt’s, even though the thought has tried to sneak back in _over_ and _over_ again in recent weeks.

“Santana,” Rachel says, softly, behind her.

“I just _can’t_ ,” she stresses, but then Rachel puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes, once.

“Are you attracted to me?”

“Rachel--”

“ _Are you_?”

Santana sighs and feels herself nod, her forehead slumping forward.

Rachel’s hold on her shoulder tightens, and she’s pulled around without warning; she doesn’t even look up so much as that her chin is nudged up by one of Rachel’s hands, skimming past her cheek, and tangling in her hair--

\--and _oh,_ God, this is such a horrible idea, which doesn’t explain why it feels so fucking _good_ to be kissing Rachel like this, to be pressed up against the counter by her, to knit both hands into Rachel’s ridiculous sweater and pull her in even closer.

Santana rips her head away and tries to not breathe so heavily, but Jesus; she has to keep her eyes closed, or she won’t even be able to talk at all.

“What--what are you asking me to do?” is what comes out.

“Anything,” Rachel says, right by her ear, and she literally feels her entire body shake in response. “Whatever you’re okay with. I’m just so _tired_ of feeling like--like I’m not good enough.”

Santana squeezes her eyes shut even harder. “Rachel,” she tries, one last time.

“ _Please_. I just need--”

She doesn’t want to wait to find out what Rachel needs, because she _knows_ she’s not going to be able to give it to her; all she knows is that she’ll do pretty much _anything_ right now to not have to listen to that much self-loathing in Rachel’s voice, and next thing she knows, she’s backed Rachel into the wall separating their bedrooms.

Rachel lands against the crummy plaster with a gasp, and _fuck,_ she doesn’t know how to stop this; not that she even wants to anymore, not with Rachel looking like that, her lips bruised and her eyes dark and her chest expanding and contracting rapidly, like she can’t get enough air in her lungs.

“Christ,” she says, leaning forward until their foreheads are touching. She closes her eyes again, because it’s just too much. It’s _so much_ too much.

It’s enough of a signal for Rachel, who’s always had more courage than her when it comes down to it, and who pulls her head down by her hair and kisses her again.

*

She hasn’t been this fucking clumsy since--well, _ever_.

They knock over a lamp before they’re even in the bedroom, and Rachel doesn’t give her a chance to even laugh about that--just shoves her backwards onto the bed before straddling her thighs and shrugging out of her sweater.

Santana watches her unbutton her blouse, and then watches her shrug out of it, and then watches as Rachel very unceremoniously unclasps her bra and shrugs out of that, too.

“This isn’t a spectator sport,” she finally says, with some pretty unconvincing bravado, when Santana still hasn’t said or done anything beyond digging her nails into Rachel’s thighs, probably hard enough to leave marks even through her black work slacks. “It could be, but--”

“Shut up,” Santana says, pushing up on her elbows, meeting Rachel halfway for another desperate and messy kiss.

“I just--” Rachel gasps, when Santana licks at her lips.

“ _Please_ ,” Santana repeats, because her heart is beating so fast that she actually feels like she might pass out before _anyone_ has an orgasm, which seems like the worst way this can end.

She pushes away any ideas that this can’t end well, because--damn, half-naked Rachel. Half-naked _Rachel_. Her eyes almost roll back into her head at just the _idea_ of it, let alone the reality; when Rachel bites down on her shoulder as the conclusion to that path she’s started kissing down Santana’s neck, all she can do is shudder and close her eyes..

“Off,” Rachel mumbles against her collarbone, and Santana tangles her arms in her t-shirt until Rachel helps her pull it over her head. They end up looking at each other on accident, and Rachel smiles tremulously for just half a second. “I thought you’d be more suave than this.”

A challenge, she can handle.

The button on Rachel’s pants pops without much protest and then she bucks Rachel back up into a standing position, leaning down and tugging her out of her jeans. It reminds her of drunken sleepovers with Quinn, until she realizes that Rachel’s black panties might as well be see-through with how wet they are, which has obviously _never_ happened with Quinn, and--

She takes a deep breath and starts kissing upwards and away from them, anything to gain at least the illusion of control.

Rachel’s stroking her hair, murmuring something she can’t even hear, until she finally reaches Rachel’s sternum. There, she snakes her hands back up Rachel’s thighs, past her hips, and up to her breasts, which, _Jesus_ , she’s never actively tried to picture, but even so, they look exactly like she wants them to. They’re also incredibly sensitive, because as soon as Santana cups one and swipes past a nipple with her thumb, Rachel’s knees cant forwards and then they’re half-on, half-off the bed.

“Off,” Rachel says again, and Santana thanks Jesus for sweatpants, because she’s in her underwear within seconds; wasn’t wearing a bra to begin with, so now they’re equally lacking in clothes, and, when she looks back at Rachel--

Shit, she can’t even remember the last time anyone looked at her like that.

“Let me,” she finally says, because Rachel looks like she’s starting to lose some of that determination now that she’s actually faced with 5’8 of basically naked girl, and Santana rolls them over and kisses Rachel’s bottom lip, just once, before mumbling, “This isn’t your first time, is it?”

“No,” Rachel says, shortly, and even though she fucking _asked_ , Santana still can’t believe the flare-up of insane jealousy that spikes through her gut.

“Was it good?” she asks, knowing she’s giving up way too many of her cards, here, but she can’t even help it, not when her hand’s running back up Rachel’s side and pinching her nipple without warning.

“It was--God, it was fine, but it wasn’t you,” Rachel sort of whimpers, and Santana unwillingly grinds her hips down where they’re rocking against Rachel’s thigh because, _fuck_ , nobody’s ever said anything like that to her, _ever_ , and she shudders before kissing Rachel deeply again.

It shouldn’t surprise her that Rachel’s vocal in her encouragement, but she feels completely overwhelmed by the small noises--whimpers, moans, gasps--that Rachel releases into the kiss, and God, there is just so much to _do_ and she honestly can’t even decide on where to start.

Rachel’s hands slide from her lower back up to her shoulders, scratching along the way, and Santana almost purrs her way into a slow arch that rocks her hip against Rachel’s panties. It reminds her of the goal line, even if only for a second, and when Rachel’s hands push down, she slips down with them; she nuzzles a quick path down to a pretty much perfectly sized and crazy responsive breast, flicking her tongue out at a nipple and then scraping her teeth past it.

Rachel arches upwards, and Santana doesn’t think _fuck, yeah,_ as she has every other time she’s unintentionally blown someone’s mind with just a few well-placed touches here and there. She just thinks _I need more_ , and when Rachel’s free fingers start plucking at her other nipple, Santana bats her hand away and sucks on it, hard.

Rachel cries out, and Santana glances up for a second, and--fuck, Rachel’s looking right at her with a completely desperate but otherwise inscrutable impression.

“I want you to go down on me,” she says, and when Santana closes her eyes for a second, plays the words back in her mind, her mouth already skimming further down, she adds, “I’ve--Chastity’s told me how good you are, at it, over breakfast, and--”

Santana’s hands clench at Rachel’s waist, and she knows she doesn’t need to respond; knows that Rachel is just getting a whole lot of shit off her chest at once, and whatever. Maybe this will be fine; maybe everything will be okay, if she can just deliver on whatever fucking expectations Rachel has.

“I’ve thought about just walking in on you--just so I could _see_ what it would be like,” Rachel is saying, and some part of Santana really thinks that they should probably have some coffee together and talk about whatever the fuck is going _on_ with them right now, but not when she’s close enough to Rachel’s panties to remember that they’re soaked through, and not when the bullshit coming out of Rachel’s mouth is coming out in a tone of voice that’s pretty much destroying her ability to think straight.

“You’re just so--” Rachel says, and then gasps when Santana’s thumbs curl under her panties and start that incredibly fucking long trek down those legs. When they’re gone, her nails scrape back up Rachel’s thighs, swerving from outside to inside, and Jesus, the way Rachel spreads her legs--

“That’s it, baby,” she says, without thinking, settling between them and pressing a bruising little kiss right at the apex of Rachel’s left thigh. “God, when did you get so fucking sexy,” she mumbles, next, when one of Rachel’s legs lifts and her heel lands on Santana’s shoulder.

“You’re going to kill me,” Rachel whimpers, sounding both pleased and panicked about that fact.

“Maybe,” Santana responds, closing her eyes and dipping her head for a first taste.

Some part of her thinks for just one second, _I can’t believe she’s letting me do this without getting cling wrap,_ and then she sort of chuckles, her tongue still pressing against Rachel’s pussy, and Rachel keens and grabs her hair hard enough for it to hurt.

“Don’t--God--regardless of your intent, this will be over in about five seconds, so just--” Rachel says, which is just so _Rachel,_ and Santana smiles before leaning in and licking again, with a little more purpose this time.

She wants to take her time; she does, but Rachel’s right, and after a few quick strokes and a second and a half of sucking on her clit, Rachel’s back arches off the bed. She produces a sound that clenches low in Santana’s gut, and all she can think is, _I’m not done._

Rachel’s so wet, and her fingers slide inside almost unnoticed, but when she curls them upwards and starts gently feeling around, Rachel definitely notices; that heel digs into her back harder, and Santana feels it slip down towards her ass on her way back up, surprised when Rachel pulls her face down for a kiss immediately and moans loudly at tasting herself.

“I’m--I don’t think--oh, no, I can, maybe, just--don’t stop,” she rambles, and Santana drops her head onto Rachel’s shoulder, focusing only on the movement of her fingers and the way Rachel’s hands are digging into her sides, flexing with the exact same rhythm.

She doesn’t _know_ how to ask--normally girls reciprocate automatically because, duh, fucking look at her, but this is just so unexpected and Rachel’s so _straight_ , or well, obviously not, because straight girls don’t get this wet for other girls, but--

Then Rachel’s right hand slides down to the front of her body, and sort of feebly pushes on her hips; Santana shifts onto her knees almost instinctively, and then almost bites through her lip when Rachel’s fingers tentatively start stroking her, slipping inside of panties she probably shouldn’t be wearing anymore.

“God--faster. Harder. No, faster,” Rachel breathes; she gets both, even though Rachel’s fingers are really, really fucking distracting, and Santana keeps biting on her lip just to snap her out of the haze she’s in, to keep her paying _some_ attention to what she’s doing to Rachel.

“Am I--is this--” Rachel asks, twisting her hips up to meet Santana’s palm on the way back inside every single time, and Santana glances down their bodies; God, it’s almost unbearably hot, the shameless way that Rachel’s trying to get off again.

“Don’t be stupid; you can fucking feel how wet I am,” she breathes out, looking up for just one second to see the expression on Rachel’s face.

“You’re--” Rachel says, and then pauses, her mouth still open, her head snapping back onto the pillow.

Santana _doesn’t_ come at the sight of it; Rachel’s fingers just happened to be doing exactly the right thing at exactly the right time.

She feels the strain on her arms, which are just about to give out, and she shifts, ending up in a heap next to Rachel, whose sticky fingers are pressing shapes into her hip.

They’re quiet for a very long time, and Santana almost drifts off, like some fucking teenage boy--or maybe a 19 year old girl who hasn’t slept much in the past two days, and who hasn’t come this hard in _months_ , let alone just from someone clumsily fingering her.

“God,” Rachel finally says, running a hand through her hair, but it doesn’t sound happy. It sounds--

“What?” Santana asks, blearily.

Rachel just shakes her head.

“What, are you like--was it--I didn’t--” She gives up, because it doesn’t seem like there’s _anything_ she can say that wouldn’t be stupid.

“You’re--very good,” Rachel finally says, with a sad, small smile. “I shouldn’t be surprised, really, because you’re good at nearly everything--”

“And that’s a bad thing?” Santana asks, blinking her eyes open, because--she’s _never_ had complaints. Not even from _guys_ , for God’s sake.

“No, of course not,” Rachel says, quickly, and then sighs deeply.

The room falls silent again, until about ten minutes later, when Rachel sits up and says, “Thank you.”

Santana forces her eyes open and says, “For _what_?”

“For--well, you know,” Rachel says, reaching for her panties, and Santana’s suddenly completely awake again.

“What are you doing?” she asks, roughly.

“You don’t need to make me breakfast, Santana; I live here. I know where we keep the cereal,” Rachel says, in her casual voice--the one that isn’t convincing at all.

“Hey, what the hell?”

“It was a joke. God knows I’m the one who always makes breakfast for... them,” Rachel says, this time not at all able to keep the tremor from her voice.

Santana’s hand crawls across the mattress towards Rachel’s back, but then stops, right before reaching it, because she doesn’t know what the hell she’s doing.

“Jesus, Rachel, you’re not just some... Just--stay here,” she finally says.

Rachel glances at her over her shoulder, and the look on her face is something Santana will never forget. She looks fucking _heartbroken_.

Dread is crawling up her spine at a rapid place, and that really doesn’t explain why it feels so fucking good to feel the mattress dip again when Rachel settles back next to her.

*

She wakes up alone.

*

Rachel leaves a note, next to the cereal.

_I’m sorry. I just need some time._

It crumples in her hand as soon as the words really sink into her head; as soon as it becomes clear what last night _was_ , to Rachel:

A massive fucking mistake.

It’s not a really a surprise that Puck calls five hours later and says, “Hey, Rach just asked me to pick her up at the airport - what’s going on? She okay?”

“No,” Santana says, and hangs up, shutting her phone off.

*

Out of all the times she’s tried to not wonder _what if,_ recently, not once did it occur to her that she might be left feeling like a fucking _gigolo_ afterwards.

Maybe people were wrong calling her a whore in high school, but right now...

( _You’ve made your bed_ , fifteen year old Quinn sing-songs in her head. It’s probably what she deserves, to have that stuck-up virgin bitch voice following her around for the rest of the day.)

*

Quinn is totally going to flip about this, but after two days of puttering around the apartment ( _large_ , now, so unbelievably large and empty) and trying to focus on the transcript she’s meant to be editing and not getting past the third interview question, Santana finally gives in and calls her.

“Oh, it lives,” Quinn says, a little sharply. “I’ve called you seventeen times. What the hell is going on? I heard from Puck that Rachel’s back in Lima and doesn’t know when she’s going back to New York.”

“I’m going to need you to not--be a judgmental fucking asshole for about fifteen minutes. Can you do that?” Santana says, after grappling for something better to say than that.

*

She somehow manages to get through the entire story and Quinn stays silent throughout; if not for the occasional sound of breathing, Santana would be wondering if she’s actually hung up.

When she’s done, there’s a soft exhale, and then Quinn says, “I slept with Sam.”

“ _What_?”

“I just... thought you’d appreciate not being the only screw-up in this conversation,” Quinn says, in a shaky voice. “I obviously didn’t _mean_ for it to happen, he was up here visiting Puck and Finn and then asked me to go out for a drink.”

“Which then what, led to you slipping and falling on his dick? What the _fuck_? How could you do this to Rachel?”

“I don’t really think you’re one to talk about doing things to Rachel right now,” Quinn says, sharply. “And besides, she broke _his_ heart.”

They’re both silent for a long moment and then Santana says, “So, what? You fucked him and now what?”

“I don’t know,” Quinn confesses. There’s some rustling in the background and then she says, “What about you?”

Santana laughs brokenly. “Any chance of you transferring to NYU early? I think I might need a new roommate.”

“Santana... she’ll come back.”

Santana rubs at her face. “Yeah. Maybe she will, I mean, why not, right? She asked me to fuck her because she was feeling bad about herself, and I _did._ What the fuck kind of friendship is this where that just _happens_? Like, really, who _does_ shit like this--”

“Actually, maybe that’s sort of the point. Maybe you’re not... you know, friends,” Quinn cuts in, gently.

“Q, this _really_ isn’t the time to fucking start badgering me on how I could _ever_ want to be friends with Rachel Berry, okay?”

“That’s not what I mean. Britt thinks you’ve had a thing for her since senior year, you know.”

“ _What_?”

“You heard me. She just came out with it one day, right before she left for Boston. _Santana likes Rachel, but I don’t think she wants to, and she’s really good at not wanting things that she doesn’t want to want._ Something like that.”

“And you _buy_ this theory?” Santana asks, much more sharply than she means to.

“I don’t know,” Quinn says, and then laughs. “I mean, it’s _Rachel_.”

The disgust in Quinn’s voice shouldn’t be funny, but it is a little. “Britt’s crazy. Rach is just...”

She trails off helplessly, because there are way too many words spinning in her head right now, all of them linked with Rachel in ways they weren’t before.

“Would you sleep with _me_ if I was having a fat day?” Quinn asks.

The silence that follows is pretty much deafening.

“Exactly. So, the way I see this, it would’ve probably been better if you two had managed to have a conversation about whatever is going on between you, like two sane and rational adults, but this isn’t the end of the world. You can still fix things, if you want to.”

“Of course I fucking do,” Santana sighs. “I just don’t really know _how_.”

“You two have always had… I don’t know, chemistry, I guess,” Quinn says, only sounding vaguely nauseous, to her credit. “I’m assuming that it was... good.”

“I’m always good,” Santana says, without any real feeling. “So, _obviously._ ”

“Well, maybe that’s a starting point. Just put it behind you as a one-time experience that wasn’t horrible for either of you, and take it from there.”

Another long pause.

“I can’t believe you slept with Sam,” Santana says, closing her eyes. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I don’t know. Maybe just that he’s not at all who I thought he was, in high school.”

Santana knows that Quinn’s not at all commenting on what the fuck happened with her and Rachel, which is why it’s so twisted that that’s the most on point comment she’s made all afternoon.

*

After five days, she sends Rachel a text, because if she can’t say what she has to in 140 characters or so, she basically just doesn’t want to say it.

_we don’t have to talk about it. it was just one time (and it was good). please just come back_

She doesn’t get a response.

*

Then, it’s Wednesday, a week and a half later, and Rachel’s next supply of vegan dairy is about to delivered, so she takes the steps two at a time when the doorbell rings and expects to have to carry an assload of food she doesn’t want to eat up the steps to her empty apartment.

When she gets the downstairs door open, she freezes (but not before realizing she looks like _ass_. Just great).

“Oh,” she says, stupidly. It is _really_ pissing down outside, even though it’s the start of summer, and this is the last thing she ever thought would happen to her today.

Brittany is soaking wet in front of her, wearing a light blue jacket and jeans.

It isn’t the same Britt she’s known ever since she was five; there’s nothing happy or sweet or anything about her. She just looks like she’s drowning.

“Yeah, hey,” she says, in response, lowering a small duffel bag from her shoulders--and when Santana focuses on it, it’s a Cheerios bag. (She has no idea where her own is, but seeing it on Brittany brings back so many memories that she just mutely steps aside and lets Brittany into the building.)

“What--are you okay?” Santana asks, dumbly, as Brittany shifts from one foot to the other with a wince.

It’s not the bag, which does look heavy, but--it’s not the bag.

It’s the way Brittany’s not placing any pressure on her left leg, and when Santana looks back at her face, Brittany lowers her eyes and says, “Yeah, so, some stuff happened. I’m okay, but… I’m not really. Can I stay with you guys for a while?”

Santana doesn’t hesitate again before saying, “Yeah. Always, Britt.”

Rachel’s room is empty anyway.


End file.
